Shadowed Destinies
by Dawn Moon
Summary: A journey through the shadows of Tamriel, along roads paved in danger and death. A young bard must make her own way through this darkness, or wither in the sun. Pairings MUCH later. Enjoy! UPDATE: Chapter SIX!
1. Such a Night

After many failed attempts at an Oblivion fanfic—one that I actually posted, to my shame—I think I finally got it! So here it is!

Disclaimer: Oblivion © Bethesda. All others, me.

/

Shadowed Destinies

Chapter One: Such a Night

/

Moving swift as shadows, small padded feet softly made their way through the alleys of the Imperial City. Not a soul noticed his passing, and it worked to his favor. It would not do, getting noticed in his line of work.

Tomas was an urchin, a child employed by a thief to make an extra profit. Sadly, he was not in the employ of the Gray Fox, the wily but honorable thief king of Cyrodill. If he were, he would probably wear a few less bruises than he did. Many nights, he wondered why he did not run to another town. Those thoughts he quickly smothered as the cries of other urchins, urchins with similar ideas, rose up from the cellar of the master's house. After a while, the memory of the sweet air outside the city became a distant myth. He forgot how to play, how to be a child. All that remained were the scores and the marks: the hundreds within the city who would unknowingly foot the bill for him and his fellow urchins.

At last, he found the perfect spot—the Tiber Septim Hotel. This inn was the most posh in the Imperial City, perhaps in all of Tamriel. All of the richest, most indulgent folks made their stay here if they could help it. Plenty to eat and drink in warmth and comfort. And Tomas knew that few if any of them truly appreciated it. For a brief moment, he thought about the ample amount of coins he carried. It might be enough to buy him a night here. What he would give to spend just one night nestled into soft cushions with a plate of food before him. A glass of warm creamy milk…maybe a sweetroll…

With a quick shake of his head, sending dirty locks of hair into his face, he pushed those silly thoughts away. He would be a fool to try something like that. Surely, the master would find out and he would be in for a new round of bruises. No, better to remain where he was. The patrons who left would most likely be a little warm from the drinks. So much easier to slip a tiny hand into their pockets. It might take a while, but he would go back fully loaded tonight. No cellar for him, and maybe he would earn a reward as well. The thought of bread and cool water made his mouth moist.

Just as he settled in the shadows, ready to slip what he could from passersby, he heard singing coming from the inn. A woman's voice, low and soft, seemed to float out of the ornate door and dance about in the air. The dulcet notes of some stringed instrument accompanied her, enhancing the sweetness. The song sounded familiar to Tomas, but he could not make out the words through the thick door. A pair of Nords paused in their evening strolls and fixed their eyes on the door, the one obstacle barring them from the music.

"Did Augusta hire someone new?" asked the man, his ice blue eyes sparkling with a smile as the song beckoned him closer.

"One way to find out, let's go in," answered his pretty companion, her eyes just as blue, but larger. So distracted by the beauty of the music was he, Tomas could only watch as the pair flounced inside, their ample purses jingling mockingly as they passed. Once his shock passed, a sly smile came to his face. No one would notice if he relieved a few weary souls of their heavy coin purses if they were as distracted. This would be a good night for him. He felt it.

As the door closed behind him, the young urchin gasped as his eye beheld a splendid sight. The high vaulted ceilings draped gorgeously woven tapestries that hung all the way to the floor, softly waving in the slight waffling of the warm air. Chairs upholstered with silk and velvet sported overstuffed cushions as large as his whole torso. Fresh flowers sat in ornate bowls all around the sitting room. He had never seen a palace, but he imagined this was quite close.

In the center of the circle of seats, a lovely Bosmer woman stood cradling a long-necked instrument. She was short and slender, like a young willow. Her hair was a coppery brown color, twisted up onto her head with a pair of jeweled sticks. As she plucked and sang, her honey gold eyes shimmered with emotion. She swayed a little to the rhythm of the music, drawing the patrons nestled into the chairs a little further into her song. Now was his chance.

Before he could make his way towards the easy marks, a chubby cook strolled by, carrying a tray of food to the guests. The most delectable perfume of aromas curled around him like a warm blanket. Crusty bread, honey-soaked cakes, freshly roasted meats, and a host of other smells he could not place his finger on seized him and would not let go. His belly growled like a troll, sending a sudden wave of dizziness over him. Stumbling backwards, he crashed into a well-dressed Breton woman with a coiffure that looked like a coil of red rope. She gasped a little, and then got a look at the large smear he left on her bright blue velvet gown.

"You wretched little beast! Look what you've done!" With a keen of outrage, she shoved Tomas away, checking her purse frantically to see if anything was missing. Her distress stopped the music all together, murmurs of concern rising up in their stead. "What did you take, you little thief?"

Tomas' brown eyes widened in fear, thinking of the small purse tucked into his dirty stocking. He had taken nothing from her, but if anyone cared to check him after her outburst, nothing he could say would save him. Just as he feared, a burly orc, the bouncer no doubt, stomped over to him.

"Thief you say?" He growled, looking the boy over with distaste. As an orc, he was an ugly thing, but his clothing was impeccable. Even more impressive was the large mace strapped to his belt. "I'll have a look at you, boy." His green-skinned paw reached for him, and Tomas screwed his eyes shut, waiting for the pain.

"I think not."

The velvet voice opened his eyes again, and he stared at the shocking scene before him. The bard stood in front of Tomas, her hand pushing the orc's down again. "Really, sir. No need to bother the boy," she said her voice warm and soft. "He's only looking for a warm place to stay, as are we all." Tomas could not see her face, but he heard the smile in her voice. Such carefreeness did not appear in the orc, however. His dark eyes narrowed in annoyance.

"Back to your plucking, tree-hugger. You aren't paid to interfere with tavern business," he sneered, wrenching his hand away to land on his mace.

He barely found time to grasp the handle before a pair of black daggers flashed up and crossed over the orc's throat. A collective gasp erupted in the sitting room, the orc's face draining of color. The elf took a step forward, pressing the blades a little closer to drive the bouncer back to the wall. From the new angle, Tomas could see her face a bit better. Her golden eyes shimmered no more, transformed into hard gems of amber. Hard lines replaced the sweetness in her face. She seemed a completely different person.

"And I think you are not paid to frighten helpless children." Her voice, too, had gone cold, sending a shiver through the gawking crowd. Those amber gems flicked to the Breton woman who flinched as she met them. "Good lady," she began, her voice betraying that she thought her to be neither, "please check your things, and tell me if this little one took anything."

The woman rushed to obey, dipping her manicured fingers into every conceivable place, patting her jeweled neck and ears. With a crinkle of her nose, she glared at Tomas who went even paler than the trapped orc. If she missed something, left it at home thinking she had brought it, he was finished. He knew it.

"No, he did not," she admitted painfully to his ultimate relief. "But just look what the little pest did to my gown!" She wailed, grasping the material to show the crowd. She garnered no sympathy this time and one by one, they returned to their chairs.

Releasing the orc, the bard sheathed the ebony daggers and dipped into her own purse, casting a handful of septims at the woman's feet. "If that does not cover the cost, I will be here for the next few nights," she murmured, eyeing the woman as if daring her to continue the scene. "Now you let him alone."

Expelling a loud harrumph, the Breton kicked the coins aside and shuffled out of the inn, muttering and cursing as she went. The elf smiled and shrugged, stooping to gather hoer coins up. The orc smoothed out his tunic, trying to regain some face. "All a misunderstanding was it not?" she asked, her voice warm and soft once more. Hearing the anger in her voice no more, the orc muttered something under his breath and nodded, unable to look at the tiny, willowy elf that got the best of him. The bard gazed over her shoulder at Tomas, smiling at the blush appearing under the dirt on his cheeks. Placing her hand on his shoulder, she led him to the front desk. "Here," she smiled, giving the handful of coins to the innkeeper, Augusta Callidia, "put him up for the night and give him something to eat. There should be enough there."

The older woman chuckled and winked at the boy. "Well, aren't you the lucky one? Why don't you go on into the washroom and have a bath?"

Tomas' mind reeled. A bath. The best he ever had in his eight years of life was a somewhat clean rag with less than clear water to wipe his face and hands at the master's house. Imagining the warm water and perfumed soaps awaiting him, he floated away from the room, barely aware of one of the barmaids ushering him along. Everything was moving so quickly. Had that all happened? This stranger, knowing nothing of his intent, chose to help him, and not just help him, but make him comfortable. Why?

After the longest, warmest bath he ever dreamed of, he returned to the sitting room where the elf had just finished another song. Though scrubbed clean, he still felt a little awkward being among such finery. He had shaken as much dirt out of his clothes as possible, but he could only do so much without washing them, and they were all he had. Remembering the Breton's reaction to him, he quietly tucked himself into a corner with sufficient shadows. The bard caught sight of him and approached, her face bearing an amiable smile. "What is your name?" she asked as she ushered him over to a plush floor cushion.

"T-Tomas, mum. M'name's Tomas," he stuttered as he lowered himself into the cloud-like pillow, unaccustomed to and a little uncomfortable with such treatment. Maybe he should forget all of this and get back to the streets. But… it was so soft…

"Tomas, my name is Ilshalys. Consider yourself a special guest tonight."

"But…my master…" he began, but she ignored his fading protest and picked up her lute again, strumming a lively tune. A cry of approval went up from the audience, recognizing the popular song. A few patrons clapped along as the cook returned, setting a bowl overflowing with ripe fruit and a slice of still-steaming sweetcake before Tomas. His eyes grew wide and his mouth grew wet. Never had he seen this amount of food on one plate in months. The honey-scented steam bathed his face until he could stand it no longer. Grabbing the warm cake in both hands, he took an enormous bite, half of it disappearing at once. Honey and crumbs cascaded down his chin as let free a rather loud moan of delight. Ilshalys paused in her song for a moment to watch him shovel the food into his mouth in great swallows. She erupted into musical laughter, her cheerfulness infecting the crowd as one by one, they slapped little Tomas on the back, welcoming him into their midst.

Cheeks bulging, the young urchin grinned, holding his empty tankard out to a passing barmaid. With a friendly smile, she filled it to the brim with frothy milk, patting his now clean cheek matronly. As he swallowed another bite into his ever-warming stomach, a large tear welled up and skated down his cheek. For once in his life, he felt like someone cared about him. Him—dirty, thieving little Tomas the urchin. Tonight, he felt like a king. More than that, he felt like a child again.

/

Early the next morning, little Tomas he darted in and out of the shadows once more, though with more of a spring in his step than usual. Never had he had such a night. The food just kept coming as Ilshalys doled out septim after septim to ensure his comfort. The delighted guests threw coins by the handful at her feet, but the thought to grab them never occurred to Tomas. Ilshalys played and sang into the night until the last patron had retired and he found himself nodding on the cushion. With the gentleness of a mother, she led him to one of the couches and covered him with a large fur blanket. Instinctively he curled up beneath it and snuggled into the couch, still smelling of an expensive perfume one of the patrons wore. The last thing he remembered was the sound of an elvish lullaby lilting through the air on golden strings as he sank into the soundest sleep he had ever known. No dreams of pain and cold assaulted him, only sweet scenes of home and hearth, leading up to a sweetcake the size of a house, dripping with honey.

When he woke, he found Ilshalys had left the inn and felt a twinge of dismay. He wanted to thank her properly, so he asked the innkeeper if she knew where the bard might be found. She did not know, but gave him a shiny apple and a paper wrapped package, saying the bard left it for him. Inside, he found a set of clean, simple clothes, a pair of soft leather shoes, and a large purse brimming with coins. On the lapel of the shirt sat a note, attached with a stickpin topped with a pearl.

_Dear Tomas,_

_I know what you have been going through. Believe me, life can be beautiful. Please take these gifts and make your life beautiful. I hope you enjoyed your evening._

_Ilshalys_

Augusta had to sit with him for a good five minutes to help him stop weeping. It was too good to be true! That coin was enough to feed him for a month, feed all of the others for weeks. What should he do? Buy more clothes? Food? A respite from thieving for a while?

Even more tantalizing than all of those wonderful choices, he could finally buy his freedom from that bastard! The thought of running through grassy fields and feeling the breeze of summer on his skin made him weep anew as the old innkeeper hushed him.

His mind set, he made it back to the run-down shack the master called home. Tearing a piece of the wrapping paper from his gift, he scribbled a quick note, attaching it to the bag with the stickpin. Before he left, though, he had second thoughts and took the pearl pin back, sticking it into his lapel. This, at least, was his. It would fetch a nice price to start him out. Sticking the note under the bag, he melted into the shadows again, praying that no one saw him approach or leave. He would get away clean this time. For good.

Unbeknownst to him, someone did see him dart away, but not whom he feared. Her outline barely shimmered against the adjacent building, her form nearly invisible. As a Shadowfoot for the Thieves Guild, it was her nature to remain unseen.

Ilshalys Kennedorn watched in satisfaction as the former urchin fled his hellish life in favor of something better. Good. She at least got to one of them. And now she knew where the rest were.

This operation had been a thorn in the side of the guild for years, and though she had only been a part of it for a few months, it was a pleasure to be the one to shut it down. Too long had she shadowed the lost children of the city, watching them skulking along like rats, stealing pitiable amounts for a lazy, abusive sod that had not the guts to steal for himself.

She never expected to meet one face to face, though. Getting personal was not her motif. She planned to continue shadowing the little ones until one inevitably led her to the hideout. Imagine her surprise when Tomas appeared at the inn. She recognized him as one of them, but seeing him up close and personal struck a chord inside her. Her first thought was to simply get the bouncer off of his back and follow him after he left, but that all changed when she caught sight of the fading bruise under the tattered collar of his shirt, the cheeks that nearly disappeared into his skull. From then on, she could not help herself. Seeing his little face light up as he devoured that first slice of sweetcake and the life shine in his young eyes as he watched her perform warmed her heart to the core.

In the end, he had taken her advice to pay his way out of the operation. A welcome outcome indeed, or she might never have found the hideout. But more than that, he was free now, free to make his own life. Tomas, she could tell, had not the heart for thieving. The urchins were talented, and the Fox mentioned trying to recruit the ones who wished to remain in their line of work. She knew in her heart that few of the others would wish to continue either, even in the prestige and safety of the guild. Those that did would be welcomed, of course, but deep inside, she hoped they would choose a different life. As Tomas did.

Satisfied, she slipped into the alley just as her Chameleon spell wore off and made her way back to the main street, casually strolling away like every other model citizen. Another purse—one she deftly lifted from one of the posted guards on her way out of the city—disappeared into her pack with a tiny jingle, a small start to make up for the price of a new life.


	2. Walk the Line

/

Shadowed Destinies

Chapter Two: Walk the Line

/

The city of Bravil. Scented with wood rot. Overcrowded to the point of living atop your neighbors. Home of thieves and ruffians. In all of Cyrodill, no city sat so far down the slope of decline as Bravil.

Away from the despairing aura outside, the glow of the cozy fire rolled over the gray leather mask covering nearly his entire face. Ilshalys could not help but shiver as the light playing along the ridges and points made him look even more animal-like than his namesake.

"You're sure of it? All of it?" The Gray Fox, legend in the flesh, sat casually in a chair by the fire, just as if he owned the place. Considering that this house belonged to Varmon Vamori, a silver-tongued Dunmer bard and guild member in his employ, it may as well be true.

"Why would I waste your time or mine?" Leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room, Ilshalys cast an impatient eye outside. She had just filled up nearly half an hour explaining to the Fox what had happened in recent nights, about Tomas and the hideout. Just thinking about the horrible three days she experienced made her head ache. Ever since leaving the long-sought hideout, she felt that she would be closing in on the man soon. Instead, she spent her days on a useless search for the ringleader of the urchins. Even the beggars, the couriers of hidden secrets, the very eyes of the Thieves Guild, had nothing for her. Some of them even seemed frightened when she mentioned the shack. Now dusty, tired, and thoroughly annoyed, she certainly was in no mood for the guildmaster's endless badgering. He frowned when he learned of the exorbitant amount she had spent on the urchin—coin out of the guild's coffers—but when she explained about his condition, she swore she saw a flicker of deep pain in his hooded eyes.

His eyes. They were the only thing she could truly swear by despite the mystical nature of his mask. Though distinct, she could not place them on anyone she knew. And even if she could it would not matter. The mask had once belonged to the Daedric prince of shadow, Nocturnal, and as such was imbued with an incredible power. According to legend, the wearer of the mask could walk up to a stranger, rob him blind in plain sight, then simply remove the mask and all blame immediately. While it may seem a useful tool for the Thieves Guild, it came at a steep price. Nocturnal, in vengeance against the thief who stole from her, placed a curse on the marvelous artifact. Any wearer of the mask found that it stripped him of his very identity. No one, even his family, would ever know who he was again. All memories and evidence of his existence vanished, lost to the realm of shadow.

The Fox chuckled, bringing her back to their present conversation. "No, I suppose you wouldn't. Well, this gives us something at least. Still no sight of the man himself? Any leads on him?"

The bard grumbled and fell into a chair across from him with her arms folded. "Nothing. None of the beggars can give me anything. No one in the city will even admit that the place exists!" Frustration boiling in her veins so hot she might scream, she shot up and began pacing. "He's paid off the guards, I'm sure of it. No shock there, I'll bet those incompetent fools pocket a septim from every lousy s'wit in the realm with something to hide!"

The Fox's eyes followed her as she traversed the length of the room and doubled back, the mildest amusement in them. A rather ironic statement when she too had erased some hefty bounties with S'Krivva's help in her rather brief career with the guild. It was not the same thing per se, and to her credit, she had never openly bribed a guard herself, but he still found the minor hypocrisy in her expostulation entertaining.

"Well, just keep on it," he offered a little lamely. He knew she would never stop until the fetcher was out of commission. There was just one thing he did have to worry about.

"I'll find him, Fox, I swear. And when I do-"

Ah, there it was. Christophe had warned him about the pretty bard's voice. Mostly, the Redguard mooned over it, but the wily Fox got the basic idea. And the Doyen had been correct. Her voice was lovely and soft, like Akaviri silk. The danger came when that softness no longer touched the ear. He heard it now. Like moonlight on fire-tempered silver.

"Hold it." The authority in his voice broke her from the building ferocity in her. She stopped her stalking and swiveled around to meet him. His eyes were like stone, becoming just as unreadable as his mask. "Whatever he has done, we won't be sending him to whatever Divine he dares to call on. We do this in the Shadow, as always. We-"

"We aren't the Dark Brotherhood?" She sighed, sick to death of hearing that same banal phrase again. It seemed that everyone was so eager to explain the difference between the sneak thieves and the assassins. It had gotten old within her first few days in the guild. "I know, Fox. This isn't my first job, or my first time hearing that. But you didn't see him." She walked to the fireplace and leaned on the mantle, her eyes locked on the flames. "The boy almost turned down food and warmth because he was afraid of this monster." As the Fox watched, the fire mingled with her eyes, melting the hardness away until they brimmed with molten gold, and her voice became silken again. "You didn't see him."

Something kindled in the guildmaster's chest and he too let the tension in his demeanor fade away. "Ilshalys." The bard did not look up from the fire, but she turned her head slightly. "I have seen suffering in this city for a long time. I have dedicated my career to try and make it easier for those who cannot readily help themselves. However, the traditions of the Thieves Guild have been around longer than I have, and we all must respect them. No contact."

After a moment of reflection, she at last turned from the spectacle of flames. "Fine, we'll do in your way," she mumbled, picking up her bow and quiver as her headed for the door. Placing a hand on the knob, she glanced back at him, her golden eyes firmly locking on his. "But believe me, if he crosses me, he'll pray for the Brotherhood."

The door opened and closed quickly, letting a whisper of chilly air into the house. Though his masked face still concealed his expression, his insides felt frozen. What made her perfect for this kind of job was the very thing that could ruin her: passion. He could only hope she was as good as her word on the subject of the man's fate.

Still, the sharp-edged blade of her voice remained firmly buried in his mind even as the fire waned to embers hours later.

/

Back in the Imperial City, the cool night sent many citizens indoors. As the light faded from the sky, windows glowed as homeowners lit fires and the unlucky soldiers who had been lacking in their duties found themselves lighting sconces. In alleyways, similar glows signaled the mendicants hunkering down until morning when they would ply their trade. With a snort, remembering the previous days' fruitless search, Ilshalys watched from the shadows. If no one would answer her questions, she would do this on her own. She would find him tonight. The man was not a ghost. He was flesh and blood, and someone in this wretched city knew of him.

A knot of men, each a little warm from their previous stop, turned the corner and stumbled by her position. Tightening up against the wall, she strained her ears to catch any tidbit of their conversation, then impulsively hunched away from them as they bellowed a lusty tune about an Argonian maid in a variety of keys. Laughing like fools, they fumbled up the stairs of yet another tavern.

"Drunken sots," she muttered, drawing her cloak tighter about her. As she exited the alley, she heard disgruntled shouts emanating from the bourgeois tavern. A bar fight, no doubt, possibly caused by one or all of the lushes that just entered. "Hope someone breaks a nose." She wanted to run inside just to join the fray as her frustration mounted. Venom ran hot in her blood and she needed to let off steam somewhere. Too bad the Arena had closed for the night.

Just as she readied herself to go back to the Waterfront for a rest, a piercing scream erupted from across the district. A string of foul words followed it in quite a different voice. Forgetting her fatigue, she sprinted towards it, hoping that this was her break. At the same time, she prayed it was not as a vicious blow resounded down the stone streets.

Closer and closer. She could hear weeping now, soft and helpless. A guard, also alerted by the cries, ran next to her, but his armor kept him from overtaking her. Quickly downing a potion of pears and bitter wisp stalks, her limbs grew lighter immediately and she sped away from the clanking guard. She heard him impotently warn her of vigilantism, but she did not care.

"I tell you, it'll be worse for you if you hold out on me, you little fetcher!" The gravelly voice warned as another blow landed on the unseen victim.

"I ain't seen 'im Master Jillik! Honest! I swear!"

Master Jillik. At last, a name to put to the monster. After what seemed an eternity, she rounded the corner and ran full speed into the alley.

A tall, leanly-muscled man with greasy hair and a face that rivaled a sewer rat's stood towering over a small, filthy girl. Dirt and blood streaked her once golden hair. She raised her arms over her face, multiple scars marring the tender skin. She could not be more than six.

All memories of the Gray Fox's commands blew apart as she let free a scream of fury, drew her ebony daggers, and rushed forward, her eyes locked on Jillik's throat. Alerted by her cry, the man spun away from the girl and gaped at the sight of the small-bodied elf rapidly closing the distance between them. The girl, too afraid to run, sank to the ground and scooted behind a large rock. Before Jillik could raise a hand in defense, one of the black blades sank hilt deep into his shoulder, the other burying itself into his side, its enchanted edge chilling his blood and freezing his bones. His cry of pain fell short as his stiffened body toppled to the ground like a piece of timber.

Growling, the bard pulled her blades free and raised them to strike again, but a pair of armor-clad arms wrapped tightly around her torso. Screaming in protest, she slashed and cut at the prone Jillik for all she was worth, but the guard prevailed as he dragged her away. "Stop it! Stop fighting!" He shouted, giving her a teeth-rattling shake. Her daggers fell to the ground in the scuffle, Marrowstone almost slicing into her own foot.

"He's scum! He deserves to die! Let go!" She twisted and fought, but could not break free.

"Please, sir, let the lady go…"

The guard looked up as the little girl pulled herself up from the ground. In shock, he let the bard go and rushed over to her. "By Mara's mercy! Are you alright?"

"Yessir, I'm okay now." She beamed over his shoulder at Ilshalys, her eyes, glassy green and wet with tears. "She saved me."

Ilshalys smiled at the girl and slowly bent to retrieve her daggers, sheathing them with a flick of her wrists. The guard turned and looked long and hard at the bard. After a moment, he gave her a slight nod and glared down at Jillik, who stirred on the ground, muttering curses with every breath. Forgetting all about protocol, he pulled a club from his belt and brought it squarely down on his oily head, grimly satisfied as he crumbled back to the ground. Ilshalys raised her dark eyebrows, giving the guard—a young, clean-shaven Imperial—an incredulous look, to which he simply shrugged and bent to tie Jillik's wrists.

"What's going on? What's happened?"

The trio looked at the alley entrance, seeing a tall Breton man watching the scene. He did not seem too interested in Ilshalys, but his dark blue eyes were fixed on Jillik. His thin lips formed a hard line on his face. A cold chill ran down the bard's back. Could this be an accomplice, a hired hand sent to watch over his master? She fingered her daggers, feeling comfort in their hard, cold metal.

"Nothing to concern yourself with, citizen. Just a routine arrest. Caught him attacking a child," said the guard as he hauled Jillik to his feet and dragged him off into the night. The newcomer's eyes never wavered, his square jaw twitching.

Finally, he seemed to notice the bard, who immediately dropped her hands from her belt, assuming a nonchalant pose against the wall. The child sidled up next to Ilshalys, tentatively resting her head on her thigh. With some effort, the Breton arranged his face into a smile, rolling his shoulders back.

"Well, little one, I suppose that this was your lucky night. Beware of who you associate yourself with in the future, my girl. You won't always have a hero to help you."

"Yessir," she whispered, burying her face into the warm leather on Ilshalys' leg. The bard stroked her hair, softly hushing her.

"Thank you for your concern, good sir. We'll be fine," she said, turning her attention fully on the child. With a curt nod, the man turned and left the alley. Ilshalys listened intently as his footsteps echoed and finally fell silent.

She had to move quickly. The night would only allow her so much time to finish her task. If this man was a factor to be worried about the she had even less time. Scooping up the girl, she dashed away towards the outskirts of town. Towards that house of horrors.

/

"What part of 'no contact' was unclear to you, Shadowfoot?"

"That part where I'm supposed to watch him harm a child and pray to merciful Mara that a guard might come a-running in time!"

It had gone on for an hour in the house of Varon Vamori. The Dunmer excused himself long ago, uncomfortable with the noise level. If a passing guard heard the argument, being in the same house with the thief king of Tamriel and his fastest rising star would be quite detrimental to his state of living.

Throwing up his hands in exasperation, the fox plopped into his chair and sat rubbing his temples. Ilshalys growled and turned away from him. "You know I was right about this. Job's done and you've a slew of new recruits. You should be happy. I'm happy."

Of course, the bard was far from happy. She had indeed gotten to the hideout and convinced the urchins that they could leave, even managing to bring a few into the fold. The ones who wished to leave the business of thieving went to the chapel of Mara. The children's gratitude and happy smiles stayed with her and lightened her spirit, but a blot of darkness still weighed on her heart. Who was that strange Breton? She did not see him on the way to or inside the hideout, but that still did not absolve him of some kind of involvement. His intense interest in Jillik was too plain to ignore. She thought to mention him to the Fox, but as soon as she had arrived at Varon's house, he barraged her with accusations and berated her on her methods.

"Happy? How can I be happy when my most trusted thief can't follow my instructions? You should have called the guard yourself and stayed out of it! You might have killed him!"

Ilshalys spun and reached him in two quick strides, gripping the armrests of the chair. Leaning in as close as possible, she stared into his eyes, watching them widen behind the cowl. "Better him than her," she breathed, trying to keep her hands on the chair and away from her belt. "What do you know of their suffering? You sit here and hide behind borrowed doors and stolen masks. You know nothing."

Before the Fox could retort or question her, she released the chair and tossed a large purse onto the table. "What the boy paid him. Take it back."

"Your payment-" he stuttered, shocked at her boldness.

"Leave it with S'Krivva." Without another word, the door slammed behind her, cutting off any other questions the Fox had.

How dare he speak to her like that? How dare he question her methods? He was not the one on the streets doing these godforsaken jobs. Growling past a guard, she shoved the gates of Bravil open and stalked out into the night. Damn the Fox and what he had a problem with. None in the guild could find fault with her execution of the job. She may have skirted the line, but she followed the tenets of the guild—no killing anyone on the job.

She was not on the job now. Her eyes traveled across the land and landed on the soaring White Gold Tower, the crown jewel of the Imperial City. She had a new job now, and damn what the Fox would say about it.


	3. New Day's Dawn

/

Shadowed Destinies

Chapter Three: New Day's Dawn

/

In the dusty stillness of the rented room, a tiny dagger whistled through the air, drawing a trail of dust behind it. The sharp blade disappeared into a wooden beam with a thunk, the black hilt sticking out like an odd coat hook. Growling, Sylves the Shade marched over to the skewered beam, yanked the dagger free, and stalked back to the chair beside the shabby bed. Clouds of settled dust billowed at his feet, stirred by his dark cloak. In a flash, he turned sharply and flung the dagger at the beam once more.

Thunk. Once more, the blade vanished into the wood. Two inches away from the original wound. His first miss in hours.

"Dammit," Sylves muttered, pulling a long leather strap from his bag. Steeling himself, he brought it down hard against his leg. The crack bounced off the walls in a chorus of pain. He did his best not to cry out, but could not hold in a slight whimper. As punishment for his noise, he gave himself another. This time, he remained silent.

Damn that little elf! Where in Oblivion had she come from anyway? Days it had been since he began trailing Jillik and his little brats. When at last he had gotten word of the man's location, he thought his time had come. Surely, the greasy outlaw would have been bleeding out in a gutter and Sylves would be spending his coin by now if not for that elf. That damned, wispy, bleeding heart of an elf!

Gripping the strap tightly, he brought it up and thrashed himself across the face, sending him spinning onto the bed. Blood trickled from his split lip as he lay cursing into the moth-eaten pillow. What happened to him? Never once had he been so careless on a contract. Every one of his marks went down according to his Speaker's instructions. He never failed. Until now.

With a snarl, he pushed himself up and swiped his sleeve against his still bleeding mouth. In two strides, he reached the embedded dagger and ripped it free. Another two strides brought him back to the opposite end of the room where he promptly whipped the blade back to the beam. It shrieked in the cold, dirt-filled air before blasting into the wood. The hilt made a dent as it too sank in. With a satisfied smile, Sylves focused on the moonlight glinting off his dagger, the blade in the first wound once more.

Not a failure. Merely a delay, a little twist to make things interesting. And in the end, he would succeed. How beautiful that blade would look painted with Jillik's blood. Maybe he would forgo cleaning it until mingled with the little elf's as well.

He had not failed. Not yet.

/

Like a shadow clinging to the stone wall in the Imperial Prison, Ilshalys crept along in silence. She had not yet run into a guard, but as experience had taught her, it did not mean they were not within earshot. Nearing the door to the lower cells, she watched the low torchlight glow on the meager lock. The clink of a lockpick would not do if she wished to move in complete stealth. No matter—the wax key she made last week would do the trick.

A foul stench crawled up her nose as the door creaked open. Her jaw clamped tightly to avoid the compulsive gag that threatened to blow her cover. The mixture of rotting food, body odor, waste, and vermin assaulted her senses, filling her head and pushing against the inner walls of her skull. Her gag reflex pounded upon her will, pleading for release. Rifling through her pack, she searched for something, anything that would stop the stench or settle her stomach. At last, her fingers closed around a fuzzy sprig of lavender that she crushed in her hands and smeared under her nose. The strong herbal paste burned her nose a little, but anything was better. At least she could breathe without retching.

Her personal crisis over, she resumed her search for Jillik's cell. She would make sure that he never harmed another child again. She would—

"…look all I'm telling you is you've been reassigned."

"Damn it all to the Pits of Peryite," she grumbled through clenched teeth. Thinking quickly, she picked open a random cell and swept inside, pressing herself against the wall. Would she ever have an easy night?

"Reassigned? What are you talking about?"

The second voice was that of the young guard who had taken custody of Jillik. Their footsteps got closer. Ilshalys held her breath, fearing to make the slightest noise.

"Well, I just received a sealed order from Captain Quintilius. He got word that you neglected to bring in the vigilante as well. He's reassigned you to Bruma."

"But that's insane! She was protecting the child! Did he get word of that, too? He can't do this, he can't!"

"I know, I know, it doesn't seem right. Just relax, maybe we can appeal this." As the armored footsteps receded, she heard the clap of a hand landing on a shoulder. "Just so you know, I would have done the same in your shoes."

Ilshalys' cheeks burned with rage. A reassignment as soon as a nearly untouchable piece of scum is taken in. If Hieronymus Lex were still in charge, an order like that would have been plausible, but such an order from the much less experienced Servatius Quintilius was unlikely. She smelled the coincidental hand of the Breton from the alley. It seemed she had more to deal with than she thought.

"So, you break into a cell for kicks, or did we have business?"

She gasped and spun about to meet the sunken eyes of a previously unnoticed prisoner. He was an Imperial of about fifty, with a strange hairstyle one usually saw on a monk. He stared at her, arms folded, waiting for some response. "I, uh… no. And no."

With a scowl, he turned away from her, fixing his tired eyes on a patch of hay that remained less filthy than the rest. "Pity. I had hoped you had news for me."

Still flabbergasted that she had not seen him, the bard glanced at the corridor to watch for a guard. "N-news?"

"You are not of the Brotherhood then?"

Now there was a surprise. Her jaw dropped, earning a scowl from him. "The Dark Brotherhood? You contacted—"

"Yes!" Spinning back to face her, his face contorted in a grimace of fury. "I contacted the Dark Brotherhood! So I wanted somebody murdered! So I prayed to the Night Mother! What, is that a crime now?" Agitated, he began pacing, snatching a pewter cup from a broken table. Foam curdled at the corners of his lips as he stalked along and back. "They even took my house, those bastards! Agghhh!" his voice rising on a shrill howl of rage, he threw his cup at the bars. The clang echoed through the prison, stirring mumbles, curses, and jeering from the other inmates.

"Claudius is riled again!"

"Poor fool wants his mommy! His 'Night Mommy', har har!"

"All of you shut up!" From the commanding tone, she knew that was not the voice of a prisoner. Panicking, Ilshalys threw a blush-pink potion down her throat. Her entire form vanished just as a guard, a burly, simple-looking thing, loomed outside the bars. He was not one of the commiserating guards she overheard earlier. "Shut your mouth, Arcadia! You spout off your pagan nonsense again and I'll throw you back in the rat pit!"

"There is nothing else you can do to me, you rutting fetcher! Besides, justice belongs to me, and there is nothing anyone can do to stop it." Claudius ran to the bars and thrust his face through the bars, a wild-eyed smile on his drawn face. Startled, the guard pulled away, making the smile broaden into a grimace. "They're real, Crulius. The Dark Brotherhood… the Night Mother… the Dread Lord Sithis. They _all_ exist." His voice dropped down to a low, threatening whisper, "One day, they may even come for you."

His momentary apprehension gone, the guard drew his plated fist back and slammed Claudius between the eyes. He groaned and collapsed, the smile still playing on his face as blood trickled down his face. "Lunatic…" muttered Crulius as he stomped off, but Ilshalys' saw him glance about nervously before continuing his patrol.

Softly padding to the bars, she pushed them open, becoming visible again but still enough in shadow to remain unseen. She shadowed the guard at a healthy distance, peering into the other cells as she searched for Jillik.

"Hey, Plias! Where's that new meat, Jillik? I wanted to get my first licks in!" Crulius called down the corridor, polishing his fist in anticipation.

"Well, you'd better head out to the yard! He's getting the lash tonight, but they're letting him go in the morning! Hurry!" the unseen Plias called back.

A grim smile spread the bruiser's bulging mouth as he bounded toward the door, his leg almost catching the sneaking bard. For a moment, he paused as if sensing something, but Ilshalys could not discern if he suspected her presence or if Claudius Arcadia's threat still spooked him. Either way it mattered not, for the hulking guard soon disappeared to join in the fun outdoors.

Too relieved to care if any more guards were coming, Ilshalys sighed and slumped against the wall. This was by far the most stressful job she had in a while, and it was not even a job anymore. And now, to add insult to injury, they were letting the bastard go! Why? It probably had to do with that slime of an accomplice who had gotten the guard reassigned. The whole world seemed to be laughing at her. Yes, it seemed she was the butt of the cosmic joke this time.

Then, a memory of the laughter brightening Tomas' face, the gratitude in the smile of that tiny girl touched her weary mind. She could hear the awe and wonder in the voices of the other urchins as she led them out into the grass and glory beyond the walls of the city. She had to press on. If she gave in, it all meant nothing. He would get another group of innocents and ruin their lives.

The light pitifully trickling in from the slit of a window grew stronger. As dawn broke on a new day for the world and those in it and more specifically for her, she knew what she would have to do. Somehow, some way, those little ones would be the winners, and she their champion.

/

The sun shone bright in a cerulean sky as Jillik strolled out of the heavy gates of the Imperial Prison flanked by a pair of guards. One grabbed his shoulder and shoved him the rest of the way out, muttering something about his lucky break and a threat if he ever found his way inside the prison again, but Jillik was too engrossed in his own good fortune. Only in this city could you get caught in the act and get out the next day.

"You mark my words, you slime. If you so much as pick a pocket in my city-"

"Yes, yes, my lad, I heard you. Don't keep my room warm, I shan't be needing it." He laughed deep in his hoarse throat, wincing as one of the "souvenirs" imparted to him last night sent a deep ache through his back. His left eye swelled a dusky purple-black, at least three teeth were loose, and he could not walk without limping, but being free was all that mattered to him. Well, that and getting those little brats back in line. No doubt the mewling little thing he caught in the alley had sung her song to the authorities and led them to the hideout. He would be a very stupid man if he expected to find anyone in the house but guards awaiting his return, and if anything, Jillik did not consider himself a stupid man. The shack outside Weye would do until he could round up enough employees to replenish his business. It might take weeks, but he would find himself back on top. He-

The glistening glass tip of the arrow hissed as it streaked into his left shoulder. With a cry of surprise and pain, he staggered back against the wall of the prison. "Mother of Malacath!"

The two startled guards hesitated for a moment—neither too heartsick over the attack—but at last they sprang into action, searching for the hidden assailant, calling for surrender. Upon hearing Jillik muttering and struggling with the arrow, one abandoned his search and knelt by his side. Scum or not, the law said he was innocent.

"Be still, you'll only make the wound worse," he said, trying to get Jillik's hands away from the embedded arrow. It seemed he was going into a panic, scrabbling and clawing not just at the arrow but the area around his heart. His chest heaved in great gulps of desperate air.

"It burns! It-"

He never finished his words. With a hard spasm, Jillik collapsed to the ground. He was dead before his face hit the earth. The guard leapt to his feet, his face ashen. Never in all his years had he ever seen such a fast acting poison. A wail descended from atop the roofs and sent a wave of horror through his veins. Grabbing his partner, he darted back into the safety of the prison, not wishing either of them to be the next to fall to the malign poison.

Forgotten for the moment, Jillik lay dead in the grass, thin greenish lines radiating upward from the arrow wound, a morbid tattoo of his swift yet painful death.

/

As the rays of the morning sun rose over the roofs of the Imperial City, Sylves the Shade bided his time. He had been sitting for hours on the slope of the highest roof in the district overlooking the prison. From there, he saw past the wall into the yard milling with guards, some conversing, some putting their skills to the test against the fearsome target range. With a chuckle, he gazed at the blood-soaked flogging pit as a ragged Argonian did his best to mop up the fruits of the night's labor. Sometimes he wished he could have his hand in that, but that profession did not smile upon killing as did his own.

After what seemed an eternity, his legs and feet aching from crouching so long, the sun peeked over the rooftops. His quarry stepped out of the doors, freed by the quite convincing missive he had forged the night before. Right into his sights. Right into the Void.

The arrow swished through the air from an adjacent roof, thudding into Jillik's chest. Whipping his head to the side, he saw a dark figure perched in nearly the same position he was holding a bow of viridian glass. It glimmered in the sunlight, reflecting in her amber eyes. Hearing the commotion below, he looked back at his wounded target. Sighing with relief, he saw the arrow wound. Truly painful, but if he could get off a good shot, he would have the kill. Before he readied his arrow, he saw Jillik jerking and shaking. Then, he fell and lay still. The guards panicked and ran off, crying murder.

Sylves gaped in disbelief at the scene below. Impossible! He cast a life detection spell, gazing intently at the quickly cooling body of his mark. Surely, a shot like that could not be fatal so quickly. He was paralyzed, or unconscious…he had to be.

Nothing. No discernible trace of life remained. Dead. Jillik was dead. He had been denied his kill once more: this time for good.

Slowly, he turned to face the killer, his entire body trembling in fury. Casually, she slung the bow over her shoulder, as if this were her everyday routine, and began her descent down a pipe. Suddenly, she felt his stare and flashed her amber gold eyes his way. Eyes he had seen before.

"You!" He let free a long, loud scream of rage and defeat, strung another arrow, and let it fly at her. Deftly, she swirled her dark cape upward, catching the arrow in its folds. Shimmying down the pipe like a serpent, her tiny elf feet hit the ground running, darting here and there to avoid the rain of his arrows.

Then, she was gone, invisible and out of range of his spell.

"Damn you, elf! I'll find you!" He screamed, shaking his fist at the sky. An arrow skipped along one of the roof tiles, flying wide. Another whistled by his ear, accompanied by a call to others of his position. Obviously, someone spotted him, saw the body, and put two and two together. Forgetting the elf, he sprinted over the peak of the roof and jumped to a balcony. He would have to find shelter soon.

Shelter. Now that was a laugh. No place in Cyrodill, in Tamriel, hid his failure from the Night Mother. Soon, word would reach the Listener, and then…his Speaker. Blood drained from his face as he imagined the dark, unforgiving eyes of his Speaker boring into him. Eyes that seemed to reflect the Void itself.

/

Wedged between a pair of large crates, Ilshalys waited for her heart to slow down. She stared up at the roof where her assailant fled the arrows of the Imperial Legion. Soon he vanished over the peaked tiles, no trace of him but the thick Orcish arrow stuck in her cloak.

An assassin! That was why he appeared in that alley last night; Jillik was his mark, not his ally. Even more, she believed that he had sent out the missives for his release and the reassignment of that poor guard. But it had all been for nothing. She had done it! That bastard Jillik was dead at last! Shouldering her bow, she bounced down the street, her steps light and happy. For the first time in weeks, she felt she could breathe freely.

As she passed throngs of shoppers enjoying their day out, a shadow passed overhead. A bird most likely, but she suddenly found herself unnerved. An echo of Claudius Arcadia's words whispered through her mind.

"_They're real, Crulius…the Dark Brotherhood… the Night Mother… the Dread Lord Sithis…they all exist…"_

Could it be? Had she just thwarted an assassin of the Dark Brotherhood? How had he known where to go? Was Arcadia's prayer for Jillik? The coincidence was fast becoming uncanny. But more troubling was the fact that she had stolen a kill from the finest assassins in Cyrodill.

Would they come for her now? Was her life in danger, too?

All these worries and questions lessened for a moment when she remembered the corpse of Jillik waiting for the vermin to find it. She recalled the frustration in the eyes of the assassin as he fired at her, missing her wildly for all of his rage.

A dark smile came to her lips as she left the city, her eyes on the bright, beautiful fields ripe with the new day. Let them come then. If he was the best the mysterious guild had to offer, he would soon join his lost prey in the gutter.

/


	4. Eyes in the Dark

/

Shadowed Destinies

Chapter Four: Eyes in the Dark

/

Outside the walls of a city, citizens prized shelter above all else. Wild beasts and strange creatures ruled the land. Fiery gates loomed over every province, spewing out their monstrous denizens. Every town, even the smallest, dirtiest hamlet seemed an oasis of civility and comfort after facing an angry bear or a crazed troll. Nothing stimulated peace of mind quite like a strongly built door and a lock.

After struggling past a knot of bandits and mages, Sylves the Shade now looked upon such a door, though in trembling apprehension not relief. Knowing what lay ahead, he gave serious thought to sprinting back to the bandits. The Oblivion gates might be a lark compared to what lay behind the door. At least the creatures in that realm could not help their innate cruelty. The creaking of bone on bone beckoned to him from the bowels of Fort Farragut. The guardians waited.

He remembered the first day he arrived at the fort: a young, budding assassin just months into his life among the Dark Brotherhood. In his shaking fist, he clutched a note addressed to him, ordering him to travel to the abandoned bastion and serve his Speaker. To serve a Speaker! He could barely believe his luck. Even if it did not mean taking up the role of Silencer, he would be directly serving the Black Hand itself! The words of warning in the note had all but floated away from his memory he was so excited. Perhaps he might find the odd rat, maybe a flimsy zombie or two, but he was not too worried. Sylves had grown up in a small settlement among the wilds of Cyrodill. Bands of adventurers passed through, boasting of crumbling edifices rife with strange denizens. Some of the less experienced ones often invited a few townsfolk along, so he thought himself well versed in these types of situations.

He barely made it into the inner sanctum with his hide in one piece. The low chuckle of the receiving Speaker, amused by his ordeal, still haunted his thoughts.

With great effort, he shook off the paralysis of fear. He was a fool then; he was a much better man now. Growling, he drew his sword. The midday sun sparkled along its finely honed silver, filling the symbol of Arkay with power. As if sensing the fell energies beyond the door, the blade came to life with white, twisting flames. With a howl, he burst through the door, ready to feed his holy blade its unholy fare. The shriek of scraping metal and bleached bone resounded through the forest around the fort, shooing travelers and curious beasts from its hidden secrets.

Hours later, bleeding and exhausted, Sylves fell upon the lever that would grant him sanctuary. Screeching, clattering servants raced down the corridor, their swords dressed in barbs and rust ready to split his flesh. Heaving with all his strength, he pushed the lever until it clicked into place. A massive pulse of magical energy radiated outward from the gate, sending the skeletal guardians tumbling into harmless piles of bone. For many minutes, he lay there staring at the fallen monsters, particularly focused on a set of bony claws mere feet from him.

So much faster this time. And more of them. The blessed sword was now a simple silver blade. It ran out of charges at least a full hour ago. This was even worse than his first time, and he had only been armed with a steel sword and a ratty wooden bow then.

Well, it was all over now. Pulling himself up, he entered the sanctum, searching about for a healing potion or some bandages in the pitiable torchlight. The bed looked inviting, but he knew better than to lie there. Not that he would fall asleep; his thoughts were still in turmoil over the morning's events.

As he at last found a clean linen cloth and wrapped his ripped arm, he replayed his failed morning. The sight of Jillik dead in the street with another's arrow in his chest lingered in his memory. Clenching his teeth, he yanked the ends of the bandage and tied them tightly, imagining catching the little thieving elf's throat in the cloth noose. Watching the light in those pretty, golden eyes dimming in death would be the ultimate sweetness, but that would have to wait. Right now, his main concern was saving face before his Speaker. Once more, he ran the story through his mind, hoping that any sign of lying would be well-hidden under the genuine distress of his previous battle.

"I trust Jillik lies dead, Silencer."

The blood in his veins turned to ice water, his entire body rigid with fear as the voice of the Black Hand shivered through his ear. He turned to find the dark eyes of a tall Imperial boring into his soul, like an arrow in his heart. He had been here all along, watching and waiting, laughing silently at his expense. Such was the way of Lucien Lachance.

"S-speaker…I did not hear you come in…" Sylves stammered banally, his tongue swelling in his mouth, garbling his words.

"I heard you come in. Trouble in the halls?"

The lightly mocking tone swimming under the velvet cordiality told Sylves what he already suspected: the guardians had been tougher for a reason. _He knows, of course he knows, _he though frantically. Clearing his throat, he rose and faced his Speaker, doing his best to keep his voice steady and confident, "A little. Obviously, I prevailed. And more importantly, yes, Jillik is dead."

Lucien Lachance's dark eyes never wavered, steadily meeting Sylves' stare. "By your hand?"

With a deep sigh, Sylves dropped his façade and lowered his eyes. There was no use in lying to him. No doubt the Listener himself had told him of his failure. "No, Speaker. Not by mine."

As one might do to a young child, Lucien clicked his tongue a few times, shaking his head in displeasure, though his eyes remained as soulless as ever. "Most disappointing, Silencer. This was supposed to be easy for you. What happened?"

His face crumpled in disgust as he saw the victory shining in the elf's eyes as she looked upon his prey. His prey! "Damn elf…"

"What was that, Speaker?"

Grumbling as he struggled with another bandage, he began his tale. He told Lucien of the time spent trailing Jillik, following his disgusting urchins on their nightly heists, finally culminating in the interference from the little elf girl. With a small smile, he told him of his clever imitation of Quintillius' missive to the meddling guard and his hand in Jillik's release. Then, choosing his words carefully, he told his Speaker of the theft of his kill, of the potent poison that snatched Jillik's soul from the grasp of the Void.

"I tried to kill her, but she vanished. Before I could give chase, someone alerted the guards to my presence, thinking me to be the killer. And…here I am." Finished, he lowered his head, not daring to meet the intense gaze of Lucien Lachance.

Through his Silencer's entire story—his excuses, truly—Lucien mentally compared the details given to those he learned earlier from his Listener. There were, of course, more intimate ones offered by Sylves, but the backbone of the stories matched. As rash and chaotic as his Silencer could be, he would not dare lie to him. Little, if anything, could escape the Black Hand's eyes and ears.

Finally, the black robed Speaker rose, turning his back on Sylves. Shaking his head, he rifled through a pile of potions, ingredients, and other items on a table, deftly plucking a few things out and tossing them into a knapsack. "You should have killed him last night, you know."

Sylves lifted his eyes up, a gaping expression of shock on his face. "In full view of a guard? They'd have me locked up, put to the lash!"

Spinning about, Lucien's dark eyes blazed across the cold air, the palpable force rocking him back in the chair. Harder they pressed him until he felt like he was shrinking, melting into the ground. "How much are we willing to do for our Unholy Matron?"

The sharp question slapped the insolent pride from Sylves' face. Humbled and fearing the calculating temper of his superior, he slid from the chair and knelt before him , crossing his hands over his chest in supplication. "Ask of me anything, my Speaker! I will serve the Night Mother with my life!"

Silence fell between them. A wisp of cool air blew in from some unseen draft, sending goose bumps over his flesh. Desperate for an answer, Sylves peeked up at him, thinking to implore his forgiveness. His blue eyes widened as he discovered himself alone in the cold of Farragut. Lucien, once again, had vanished.

"Find your way back to the Sanctuary, Sylves. Do not return until I call for you."

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, bouncing from wall to wall and back onto Sylves. Its echoes lingered for many moments, obviously carried on by some spell, adding to his tortured solitude. Gathering himself up, he swallowed hard and slowly walked back into the empty corridors. Bones clattered at his feet as he shuffled back to the exit. Back to the Sanctuary…the place of mere Murderers and other lesser assassins. Surely, it was no place for a Silencer.

At his feet, a pile of bones creaked and sent him backpedaling to the sanctum. The portcullis slammed down, barring his way with a doomful grinding of metal on stone. In horror, he watched the guardians pull themselves back together bone by bone. One of the fleshless faces rolled along to settle on top of a knitting spine, leering up at him with empty sockets. Screaming, he grabbed the saving lever and pulled with everything he had.

It did not move.

"Do wipe your feet on your way out," whispered the ghostly voice of Lucien Lachance, his deep, sinister laughter rolling down the dark way as his Silencer, smashing through the bony ranks, ran for his life.

/

Still chuckling, Lucien pulled his cowl down and let the warm sun pour over his face. That was one of his favorite tricks, and this was the first time in years that he had the opportunity to pull it. A harsh lesson, true, but his Silencer's arrogance demanded discipline.

His deep brown eyes turned to the west, eyeing the waterlogged city of Bravil. There, his Listener resided, awaiting the sacred voice of the Night Mother. His first though was to go to him, to inquire his next move in the ongoing tribute to Sithis. His stomach churned in anger, thinking of the soul lost by his increasingly tiresome Silencer. In the end, Lucien was the one who gave him the contract, so part of the blame rested on him. If only he had delegated to another, perhaps one of those at his Sanctuary, Jillik's soul might now kneel before Sithis.

Still, he could not help silently applauding the one Sylves referred to as "the little elf": a wood elf with a poison that mirrored his own favored apples and a deadly eye with her bow. Sylves scoffed at her "sloppy marksmanship" to soften the blow to his pride, but Lucien deduced as to why she had taken that mortal but not instantly fatal shot; she reveled in watching Jillik die. In this, he felt a kinship with her. Though her actions had cost Sithis a soul, he felt no animosity toward her. To his knowledge she had not willingly stolen the kill from the Dark Brotherhood. She had merely been in the right place at the right time. In these ever-darkening days, tensions ran high and men found their breaking points more often and more quickly than ever. How many more contracts could be in danger from the hatred of men and mer?

"_Lucien…"_

Smiling softly, Lucien turned and regarded the apparition before him. A small, elven figure dressed in the dark regalia of the Black Hand stared through him. A bluish glow surrounded him, giving him a spectral quality, but Lucien knew better. This was merely a gift bestowed by the Night Mother to her Listener, allowing for easy communication between him and those serving the Dread Lord. Trusting a courier was far too time-consuming, and no amount of coin could dispel the risks caused by imparting their kind of information to outsiders.

"Hello, my Listener. Sithis be with you."

"_Greetings, Speaker. Sithis be with you, as well." _Noticing the smile on Lucien's face, the elf smirked. _"Judging by your look, I'd say you either eviscerated someone recently, or you have dealt with your Silencer's incompetence."_

"How recently are we talking?" The joke did not go wasted as the Listener snickered morbidly, Lucien following with a throaty chuckle. "But in the latter case, you are correct. Sylves has been disciplined. He should count himself quite lucky that I did not call upon the Wrath of Sithis."

Even through the mystical glow of the Listener's communication spell, Lucien saw a shudder pass over him. The Wrath of Sithis…a terrible entity indeed. Sylves had come close to breaking one of the Five Tenets, the age-old set of rules for the Dark Brotherhood. Not many in the history of the Brotherhood had been foolish enough to break one, but those who did faced an apparition known as The Wrath of Sithis: many times more powerful than the fearsome Dread Wraiths that wandered the many catacombs in Cyrodill. Even fewer brothers who faced that entity lived to be welcomed into the Brotherhood again. Lucky indeed that Sylves had known just how close he came and sublimated himself appropriately.

Bringing himself into composure once more, the Listener gazed intently at the Speaker. No humor remained in his face. _"Don't be so sure it will not happen. Sylves grows ever bold and brash. Watch him, Speaker."_

Casting a scornful eye back to the fort, Lucien nodded assent. Surely the Night Mother had reason for sending him the Breton as his Silencer. The Night Mother's words were not to be questioned, though, so he would just have to tighten his grip on him. "Yes, Listener."

"_I hope you were not planning any personal excursions, Lucien. The Night Mother has spoken to me."_

At the mention of his Unholy Matron, Lucien pulled his hood over his dark hair in reverence: none should speak of the Night Mother while bathed in the light. "What does the Unholy Matron require?" He asked, bowing his head.

"_Two things: first, you are to return the payment to your contact. Sithis will not allow us to accept the gold of an incomplete contract."_

Lucien fingered the small item in his pocket, glad that his intuition not to sell the pearl stickpin for gold had been correct. It was not often that a Speaker returned a payment, but cheating those who found the courage to pray to the Night Mother was detrimental to the interests of the Dark Brotherhood. "And the second thing?"

"_The Night Mother wishes you to recruit the one who took Jillik from your Silencer. Her name is Ilshalys Kennedorn. Shadow her and approach when the time is right."_

Lucien smiled broadly as the Listener described the new recruit to him, reveling in his secret desire come true. Ever since Sylves told him of the elf who bested him he hoped that it would fall to him to find her. The thought of her dedication to killing Jillik and the marvelous poison she used to do it, not to mention that she had beaten his own Silencer to him…he felt…exhilarated. "I understand, my Listener. Where should I begin my search?"

"_You won't have to search long. She is currently in the Imperial City, celebrating her success. Just listen. You'll find her,"_ murmured the reflection of the Listener. His message delivered, the image began to ripple and fade.

"Listen… for what?" asked Lucien, focusing his thoughts to hold the conduit between them open.

It was no use. In mere moments, the Listener vanished, his whisper barely heard above the chatter of the forest, _"Listen…"_

Mulling over what his Listener meant, Lucien walked up the hill to the entrance of Fort Farragut. He could wonder on the way. Closing his eyes, he turned his focus inward. In the recesses of his mind, he saw a tendril of darkness beckoning to him. Reaching out, he grabbed it and felt the magical sentience pulsing in his grasp. "Shadowmere…come to me, dear friend."

In response to his call, a pool of blackness bubbled at his feet. It roiled and churned like an angry sea, surging upward into an equine shape. From within, a purplish black hoof burst up, leading the way for a magnificent creature that emerged with a whinny that sounded like thunder. Her thick, inky mane tossed about in its own wind as she pawed the air. Two intense, crimson eyes burned brightly, like red stars in the deep night. Smiling, Lucien extended his hand to stroke her nose, earning a pleased rumble from his friend.

"Come, Shadowmere. The Night Mother calls us." He swung himself up into the saddle, pulling gently on Shadowmere's halter. His eyes, shielded from the glare of the sun in the shadow of his cowl, fixed on the shimmering waters surrounding the Imperial City. There she waited: a beautiful Bosmer, hair of copper, eyes of gold.

"Listen…hmm…" he mused as his steed trotted along through the pine forests. To what, he was not sure, but something told him that it would become apparent once he reached the city. The Night Mother's words were not to be questioned.


	5. Watching You

/

Shadowed Destinies

Chapter Five: Watching You

/

"Again! Again, sweet lady!"

Cheers and the tinkling of coins resounded in the King and Queen Tavern as Ilshalys took another bow. Calls for an encore and offers of drinks accompanied the other accolades, but they need not have begged. She was feeling so good that she could have played all night.

Dead. Dead! The bastard was dead! For a while, she wondered if it was a bad thing to rejoice over the death of another so heartily, but after remembering the pain and fear in the eyes of those little ones, she quickly got over it. For the rest of the day, she devoted her time to herself, buying new clothes, rich food, good drink, and books—piles and piles of books. Losing herself in a good, thick volume had long been one of her favorite past times, and it had been so long since she had the time. Taking her sturdy paint horse, she retreated to the Shrine of Sanguine, a place where she knew she would be at peace. Those hedonists were so busy pleasing their lord and themselves that they would not mind if she lounged about and relaxed. Besides, she carried the token of their master. They practically worshipped her as well.

After a few tomes, and a few glasses of sweet brandy, her eyes began to ache. The words swam on the pages, twirling about dizzily. Flipping the book closed, she sat on a rock and began to meditate. Repeatedly, she chanted the mind-clearing mantras taught to her by Moria Lyricweave, her tutor from the Kvatch Mage's Guild. Moria knew the power of magic within music and used her knowledge to weave mystical songs and chants just like a spell. The old Bosmer gave all the knowledge she possessed to Ilshalys, instructing her not only in vocal training, but also in channeling magicka into anything she could sing. She also showed her how to overcome anything through meditation, be it fatigue, sickness, or even certain poisons. As the pain in her head grew, she fell deeper into her intonation, until at last, she reached the inward recesses of her consciousness.

Within the trance, she found a dream. All about her were shouts and pleas, hands reaching out to her for her aid. She tried to run to each one to help them, but there were just too many. Before long, she realized that the reaching hands had turned into balls of colored light—beautiful to look at, but as she got closer, they burned her skin. Backing away, she came upon more of the colored fireballs. The pleas still echoed within them, streaking towards her in frightening speed. Panicking, she turned and ran into the darkness before her, still hearing the cries and feeling the heat on her heels. At last, she came to a cliff overlooking a black abyss. A cool, sweet-scented waft of air met her, beckoning her closer. Faced with the choice of burning to death amid the pain of others and the bottomless fall into coldness, she leapt. Invisible hands with cold flesh caught her and held her aloft, floating in the blackness. The orbs of chromatic heat cooled and shrank into motes of light, gently fading into the inky dark of the abyss. And there she remained, afloat in the cold night.

The sun had moved into its second quarter before her eyelids fluttered and lifted. The notes of a new song swam in her head and she wrote it down excitedly. What a dream! To some it may have been frightening, but to her, the muse came in many forms. As she finished the song, she glanced about the glade of Sanguine. Bottles of wine and brandy lay emptied at her feet alongside a plate of demolished sweetrolls. The worshippers lay spent around the immense statue of lusty Sanguine, each too glutted, too intoxicated, or too satiated to bid her farewell as she floated back to her horse, slung herself back up into the saddle, and spurred the animal into a leisurely trot back to the city. By the time she reached the King and Queen, her head had cleared and her fingers tingled for her lute. She had promised Ley a good performance tonight and her mood was perfect.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen, I'd say the good bard owes us another! What do you say?" bellowed Ley Marillin, the proprietor of the tavern, bringing her thoughts back to the present. A great cheer rose up in response, bringing a pleasant heat to her face. The door jingled as more patrons wandered in, intrigued by the hearty uproar and beckoning voice within. "Ah, I see some new faces have come to join us! Come in, come in, you're just in time!" The friendly Imperial ushered the guests in, gesturing to the open seats at the bar and showing off his selections. "You're in for a real treat tonight," he said conspiratorially, nudging his chin towards Ilshalys. "She's one of the finest bards in Cyrodill."

"Don't think your flattery will lower my performance prices, Ley, you pincher!" She called with a smirk, sending a ripple of laughter through the crowd.

As she glanced about, searching for a suitable subject for her next song, the memory of the dream she had in the fields of Sanguine came back to her. The song within her ached to emerge. Smiling wickedly, she tuned the lute and pulled the sheet of lyrics out, laying them on a small podium next to her. What a surprise she had for them. Gently, she began strumming a tune darker and lower than the previous shanty. A hush fell over the crowd who waited in breathless delight at the thought of what a dangerously dark song she might be weaving.

"_Where light once beamed, now darkness streamed_

_The heart once alive will not beat_

_All in shadow lost, all in tempests tossed_

_All will bow by his feet."_

A gentle murmur rose from the audience, some confused at this dark turn. Another seductive strum brought their voices down again as the bard wandered about, weaving through the crowd as she spun her tale.

"_Mountains, high, may climb, but all fall in time_

_None escape the falling sands_

_Seas, deep, may churn, but all, in time, will burn_

_None escape the icy hands"_

With a wicked smile, Ilshalys strummed faster, building the song up to a fury. She spun and danced, raising her naturally low register to a shimmering, high cadenza. Breaking for an instant, she threw up one hand, letting a special illusory spell explode high above her. Within it, shadows and spectral creatures swam about, flitting and swirling around the patrons who shouted and cried out in fear. Dropping her hand, she brought one foot down in a loud stomp. The clap of her foot signaled the end of the spell and the terrifying illusion broke apart. Silence fell as all eyes turned back to the bard, shocked and shaken at her mind-affecting spell. Softly, she strummed the dissonant melody once more, lifting her eyes to the crowd. They seemed to glow like embers in her fair face, the strange light entrancing all who looked into them.

"_No running in fear, he will still find you here_

_No hiding place from the eyes _

_Might as well embrace it, be strong and bravely face it_

_Your fate, your death, your demise." _

Her voice trailed off in a low, murmuring sigh. The strumming notes faded away like a dying breath. Emotionally and physically spent, she pulled the instrument to her side and took a deep bow. Her movement lifted the tense silence from the room, which erupted into cheers and whistles, forgetting the dire tone of the song in the wake of her marvelous talent. Again, she bowed as handfuls of septims rained down on her. Scooping them up, she gathered her music and lute and maneuvered her way to the bar. Ley stood behind it, his grin gleaming as she sat down, leaning her chin into her hand.

"Fabulous, just wonderful, Illy!" He thundered, slapping the bar enthusiastically. Patrons around her patted her shoulders and praised her loudly. Their voices rang in her ears and she winced. Ley frowned and shooed them aside. "You alright, Illy? You look a little out of it."

"No, Ley, I'm fine. I'm just exhausted." She raised her head and gave him a tired smile, a few of her coppery locks falling free from the twisted knot due to her intense performance. "I've had quite a day."

"Anything to do with your…um…profession?"

Ilshalys shook her head, glancing about to see if anyone was listening. Ley was one of the few merchants in the City who knew she was a major facet in the Thieves' Guild and still gave her his business. "No, nothing like that. To tell you the truth, I'm kind of on the outs with them right now." She did not know if that was the truth, but she had not left the Gray Fox in good graces. She would be quite surprised if they did not put her back on the pickpocketing jobs for her treatment of the Fox.

Her response seemed to put Ley at ease. Smiling again, he poured her a glass of mead. Accepting it graciously, she took a long swallow of the honeyed wine, sighing as it warmed her weary vocal cords. "Well, whatever happens, you know you've always got a job here. I'd love to put you on a permanent payroll."

With a wide grin, Ilshalys finished the mead and stood up, placing a hand on her slender hip. "Ley, you could never afford me. Besides, I'd hate to cause a war among the innkeepers."

Laughing heartily, Ley slapped the bar again, Ilshalys joining in his chuckles. "Oh, you cocky thing! Well, if you ever change your mind, there's always a place on the stage for you."

"Thank you, my friend. So, do you think they liked it?"

"Ha! You know they did, girl! Be careful with that last one though. Another spell like that and they might all pass out!"

The thought of her audience swooning in terror was terribly funny to Ilshalys who burst out laughing, drawing the eyes of various guests around her. When she at last calmed, she wiped her eyes and reached into her newly filled purse. "Oh, by the way," she pulled out a generous handful of gold, "here's your cut for tonight. As always."

"Can we expect an encore tonight?" Ley asked as he swept the coins into his strongbox.

She shook her head and rolled her shoulders, the toll of the last number finally taking hold of her. "No, not tonight. As I said, I've had quite a day, and I need some rest."

Ley gestured to the stairs, where a fresh, free bed awaited her. "Sure, Illy. No charge."

Yawning at the thought of soft pillows, she bid Ley goodnight and trudged up the stairs, her energy draining by the minute. As she entered the room and dropped her belongings at the foot of the bed, a dizzying blackness fell over her. Collapsing on the bed, she sank into a deep, dreamless sleep, the tang of mead still on her tongue.

So consumed by sleep was she that she did not hear the creak of the door or the click of the lock as a shadow swept inside the room. Feet that moved even more silently than hers traversed the space between them, circling the bed like a predator padding about its prey. Lucien Lachance smiled down at the pretty elf sprawled across the bed. He had not expected the poppy syrup to act so quickly. Perhaps her small stature allowed the effects to take so quickly. Sylves had not lied when he called her a little elf. She seemed child-like, swallowed up by the blankets, but the swells of her small breasts and round hips told of her maturity.

A bard. That was what his Listener meant when he told him to listen. Luckily, he took that advice or he might not have found her. He asked a few beggars around the district if they had heard of her, but they declined to tell him, even in the face of coins, even after spying the wicked dagger on his belt. From that, he deduced that she was quite important to them, and the only thing more important than coin to a beggar in Cyrodill was the Thieves' Guild. His next thought was to seek them out, but remembering what the Listener said, he changed his mind. From that point on, Lucien wandered about, pausing at a few doors to incline his ear. Listen…for what? A clue? A conversation?

No, a song. He knew it as soon as he heard it. Her voice, like jetty velvet, poured forth from the door of the King and Queen Tavern. _"Where light once beamed, now darkness streamed…" _The lyrics caught him immediately. As he entered the inn, he found himself captured by her expert singing and playing. Not only that, she was a vision. Knowing that the Night Mother's favor rested on her kindled his appreciation, but he truly found her to be quite beautiful, just as his Listener described. Trying to keep his thoughts on the task, he slipped an enchanted ring onto his finger and vanished. He slunk behind the bar and crouched there, waiting to hear of anything about her. He did not want to search for her again. One of the patrons asked the proprietor for some mead, but he declined, stating that his last bottle was for the bard, who enjoyed honeyed wine after a performance. Perfect. Expertly, he pocketed the final bottle and tipped the vial of poppy syrup into it. A dirty trick, maybe, but it was the only way to ensure that she remained here tonight.

The explosion of her shadowy spell caught his attention, but not as much as the sight of those sinister creatures she conjured. They were magnificent, seemingly spawned from the Void. Watching the fear she inflicted on the hapless crowd sent a shiver of excitement through the Speaker. The command she held over them was a marvel. At that moment, he sent up a prayer to the Night Mother, hoping that she would indeed enter their fold. She was a rarity, this elf.

Pulling his eyes from the sleeping elf, he knelt down and searched through her belongings, looking for anything that might tell him more about her. It was not his usual way, but since the Listener had only given him so much, he was on his own. The alchemical equipment and bottles of colorful potions were the first things he noticed. They clinked and chimed against each other, but he was not worried. The poppy syrup would keep her under no matter what sounds he made. Still, he could not risk someone else becoming curious and investigating the bard's room.

Rifling through the pack, he found two impressive ebony daggers, one with a powerful enchantment. The glass bow and quiver of similar arrows lay propped up against the bed, and Lucien's smile grew darker. There was the magnificent weapon that brought Jillik down and brought her to the Night Mother's eye. Inside another bag, he found a large amount of books. Glancing back at her tiny form, he surmised that she must be incredibly strong despite her appearance.

Then, the moonlight streamed in as the clouds moved aside, gleaming against the gilded title of a particular book. Lucien's dark eyes widened as he took it in.

The Brothers of Darkness by Pellarne Assi.

On the bed, she stirred and groaned, turning fitfully in the throes of sleep. His hand went for his ring, but when he saw that she did not wake, he relaxed and turned back to the book. A quick look inside the book bag again showed him other titles along the same subject. Sacred Witness…Fire and Darkness…A Kiss, Sweet Mother…

She was reading about the Dark Brotherhood. Morbid curiosity? Research? A sobering thought that she might be looking for a way to infiltrate them flitted by, but he dismissed it. Surely, the Night Mother would not openly welcome one who might spell danger for the family.

Having seen all he needed to, he took a seat by the foot of the bed, opening a copy of Sacred Witness. One never had too little time for a good book. He only hoped she would not mind when she woke up.

/

The heavy veil of sleep slowly drew away from Ilshalys, the sunlight in the window weakly prodding at her eyes. "Oh, by Azura…no more mead after suppertime…no more…" she grumbled, grinding her palms into her eyes as she struggled to sit up. Her limbs felt so heavy, like lead weights hung from every joint. Her ears felt dulled and cottony, the sounds of the City waking up outside muffled and meaningless. What happened? This was no hangover, at least not one she had before. "Ugh…gotta wake up…"

Running a hand over her head, her fingers caught in a tangle, pulling sharply at her scalp. The sudden pain was enough to blow a little of the dullness from her and she suddenly realized she was not alone in the room. Her hand froze in her hair as her heart began to pound. Sitting in a chair with his feet propped up on the table sat a man swathed in black robes. One of her books rested comfortably in his hand, the shimmering title telling her which one. His cowl, pulled low, hid his face from her, but something told her that he was surely smiling. Of course he would be smiling. He had found her.

"You sleep…rather soundly for a murderer…"

Her heart thudded harder at the sound of his voice. Dark, cold, but enticing…like the abyss in her dream.

The abyss in her dream? Why was that the first thing in her thoughts? Who was he? Smoothly, he closed the book and stood up, casting a long shadow across the bed. From her lower vantage point, she could finally see his face. He was beautiful. His full lips smiled warmly, like an old friend who had not seen her in years. His eyes were larger than most Imperials, their color a rich shade of brown, twinkling with gold flake and…friendliness? Surely not…he was one of them. But, he was so beautiful... "That's good. You'll need a clear conscience for what I'm about to propose."

The momentary trance his voice put her dissipated with the last of her mysterious sluggishness. The memory of the too-sweet mead Ley gave her last night and now the appearance of this assassin was too coincidental. If they wanted her, they would have to do better than this.

Her hand twisted in her hair and rocketed forward. With a surprised grunt, the black-robed man threw up an arm, grimacing as one of the jeweled sticks buried itself an inch into his forearm. Lowering his arm, he found her standing before him with the pair of daggers balanced in her hands. She made no move, but twirled the weapons about to show him she was no longer under the influence of whatever he slipped her last night. To her surprise, his smile returned, even broader than before. With a quick tug, he pulled the cleverly disguised stiletto from his arm and examined it. "Quick little thing, aren't you?"

He sounded pleased, not cowed or even shocked. Not relinquishing her stance, she glared up at him gripping the daggers tighter.

Lucien watched the tough muscle in her slender arms tense, ready to strike. He was growing more impressed by the moment with her. Her defensive throw served as a screen for her to stand and gather her proper weapons. But oh, how frightened she was. He could see it in the largeness of her golden eyes, feel it in the energy of the room. If he wanted to garner her interest at all, he had to bring this back down to serenity. "You prefer silence then? As do I my dear child. As do I. For is silence not the symphony of death, the orchestration of Sithis himself?" Her stance did not soften, but her eyes did. It was a start. He swept into a low, flourishing bow, looking up into her eyes with a grin. "Ironic, then, that I come to you now as Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood. My name is Lucien Lachance, and my voice is the will of the Night Mother."

There, he said it. She knew it all along, but to hear him say it just made her feel better about throwing the tiny dagger at him. His words, hand-tailored to her profession as a bard, meant for her to drop her defenses. But why the bow? Why the etiquette? Why did he not attack her? Why could she not stop herself from looking into his eyes?

Lucien stood, never breaking eye contact. If he could keep her eyes on his, she might lower her defenses a little more. "She's been watching you. Observing as you kill, admiring as you end life without pity or remorse." At last breaking eye contact, his gaze traveled to the gleaming green bow.

Her eyes followed his and lit up on the weapon, remembering the thrill of ending Jillik's life. Remorse? If anyone asked her to show remorse for what she had done, she would spit in their face. Taking a chance, she straightened up, still holding tightly to her weapons. "So, your 'Night Mother' has called for vengeance? For stealing a kill?"

At the sound of her voice, Lucien's eyes snapped back to hers. It was velvet in singing, and silk in speaking. She did not prefer silence, nor would he prefer it from her. He held the stiletto out to her, a peace offering. When she did not take it, he laid it to the side on the table. "No, no, quite the contrary, dear child. The Night Mother is most pleased."

Pleased? The assassin she thwarted did not seem pleased. Confusion spiraled in her mind and she did her best to hide it. Why, why was he here?

Reading her expression, Lucien decided not to draw out the tension any longer. "That is why I stand here before you. I bear an offering. An opportunity... to join our rather unique family."

…_They say that when you murder someone, the Dark Brotherhood comes to you in your sleep. It's how they recruit new members..._

Many times in her travels, she heard that old rumor circulating. She never gave it much though, believing it to be blather and nonsense. How could someone know if you murdered someone? And how would they know where to find you? But now, here, in flesh and blood, stood the proof of the rumor. Lucien Lachance, a Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood, here on the will of the Night Mother.

She realized from the amused expression on his face that her mouth had dropped open in disbelief. Her eyes must be wide as platters. Giving herself a little shake, she slowly sheathed her daggers and searched for something, anything, to say. After what seemed like forever, she managed a nod at him. Smooth. Some bard she was, getting tongue-tied like that.

The smile on his face diminished a little, and for a moment she wondered if the tides were about to turn. His hands made no move to attack and his posture remained neutral. "So, I have your rapt attention. Splendid." Never letting his eyes leave hers, he motioned for the pair of chairs and sat, indicating that she should sit as well. Dumbfounded as she was, she found no strength to refuse and plopped down. His voice dropped into a deeper darkness as he leaned closer to her. "Now listen closely. On the Green Road to the north of Bravil lies the Inn of Ill Omen." His expression grew deathly serious, the beauty in his face becoming dangerous, like a summer thunderstorm. "There you will find a man named Rufio. Kill him, and your initiation into the Dark Brotherhood will be complete."

A small gasp hitched in her breast. He was asking her to kill an innocent man! How could she do such a thing? She was not some cold-hearted fiend!

Then, she remembered Jillik. By the letter of the law, he too had been deemed innocent, and she had killed him without pity. In her dealings with the Thieves' Guild, she had come to realize how flawed and sometimes corrupt the law could be. If Jillik, that monstrous villain, could go free because of the law, how many others were possessed of the same "innocence"? Did such a thing truly exist?

Seeing her inner distress, he softened his tone, "Do this and the next time you sleep in a location I deem secure, I will reveal myself once more, bearing the love of your new family."

What a strange man. To speak of killing a man and then to talk of love and family…how very interesting. For some reason, this whole conversation seemed right to Ilshalys. Was it because of whom she had killed, or who spoke to her in this room? Whatever the reason, she could not find a reason to refuse. "Then Rufio will die by my hand."

Lucien regarded her with a smile sparkling in his eyes. "Excellent. Now please, accept this token from the Dark Brotherhood." He pulled out a long dagger of glistening ebony inlaid with swirls of gold. A small string of Daedric runes hidden within the inlay caught her eye. _Blade of Woe_. She could not stop the smile as she gazed at the intricate artisanship, tracing the runes with her eyes. Accepting it, she twirled it and tested its balance. Perfection, as if it had been made for her. Perhaps it had…

Pleased with her acceptance, Lucien ran his finger against one of the gilt spirals. "It is a virgin blade, and thirsts for blood. May it serve your endeavors well." Giving the blade a final look, the Speaker stood, straightening his robes. "Now, I bid you farewell. I do hope we'll meet again soon."

At long last, Ilshalys found her tongue. "Wait a moment!" She called, perhaps a little too loudly. Lucien paused and turned back to face her with those deep eyes_. Don't get giddy, Kennedorn. Think of something to say!_ "I…have some questions…"

"Do you now? I suppose I should not be surprised. You are a seeker of knowledge, are you not?" Settling back in his chair, he slung an arm over the back. Thinking quickly, Ilshalys dug into her pack and pulled out her alchemy equipment and a jar of tea leaves. "How interesting you are, Ilshalys. I drug you, steal into your room, offer an invitation to our family of death, and yet I have earned your hospitality."

His soft voice and smooth civility caused a surge of blood to flood her cheeks. Since when did she ever feel like such a…a _girl_? She cleared her throat and poured a skin of water into the alembic, submerging a handful of leaves wrapped in silk into it. "I suppose if you wanted me dead, you would have done it long before now. And since you have been watching me all night, I figure you might want some breakfast." She pulled a loaf of bread from a paper package and tore off a piece, placing it before him. Soon, a dark brew was bubbling away and the two of them were sitting comfortably, Lucien patiently answering her many questions.

"You mentioned that you were a Speaker. What is that?"

"I am a representative of the Dark Brotherhood. My voice is the voice of the Black Hand, our organization's ruling body. One of my duties is to find…exceptional individuals, such as yourself, and offer a place in our family."

At the compliment, she flushed and dropped her eyes, letting them linger on the sprinkling of leaves at the bottom of her cup. Lucien reached for the tea, but she intercepted him. "Ah, I'll feel better if I'm the one pouring, no offense."

"None taken, dear child."

"I don't know why you insist on calling me child. I'm an elf—I could very well be older than you." It was a bluff, but she had to say something to make herself feel less inept. Something about this man stole all of her bluster and saw through every theatric she had. He did not give a response, only stared at her with those dark eyes. Giving it over, she poured herself another serving and did the same for him. "So, the Night Mother. Who is she?"

Lucien's eyes took on a faraway look. How to describe his most revered Lady? "We praise our Unholy Matron. From her shadowed womb we were born, from her breast we suckle malice and pain. She loves her children, you see."

She was not sure what to take from that, but he seemed to be in a devout trance, so she assumed that the Night Mother referred to an obscure goddess of some kind. "So she is your…leader? Your deity?"

"In some ways, both. As you may have read, she hears the prayers of those who wish to have someone killed and relays the information to us: her children."

"The Dark Brotherhood. Are you a guild, like the Thieves' Guild?"

He could not help a bemused smile at such a question. For all of her knowledge and reading, she was but a fledgling to him. It would only benefit her to help her fly. "I'm sure you have heard many things about the Dark Brotherhood. A remorseless band of paid assassins and homicidal cutthroats?" With a chuckle, he nodded, reaching across the table to lay his hand on hers. She stiffened a little, startled, but let it remain. His skin was cool, but not cold or clammy. "Join us, and you'll find the Dark Brotherhood to be all that, and so much more. We are, more than anything, a union of like-minded individuals. We kill for profit, for enjoyment, and for the glory of the Dread Father, Sithis. We are family, with bonds forged in blood and death."

Something about that kindled warmth within her. In the Thieves' Guild, bonds were forged in gold, which ran out and could be stolen or cheapened. In the Mages' Guild, bonds were forged in magic and knowledge, both of which could be perverted and misused. Blood and death. The first gave life and flowed through the heart. The second was eternal, inescapable, and conquered everything else. If any bond could be found stronger than that, she could not think of it.

"You have told me of your Mother. Now…who is the Dread Father? Who is Sithis?"

At this question, Lucien's expression darkened, taking on that stormy quality as before. His hand tightened on hers, pinning her fingers to the table. "I'm afraid I cannot answer that, young bard. It is not for you to know…not yet…"

Pushing down on her insatiable curiosity, she managed to let the matter drop and relaxed her hand to relieve some of the pressure. It would not do to anger this man. Not at all.

"Illy? Ilshalys? You comin' down for breakfast?"

Like a girl caught kissing in the hay, Ilshalys ripped her hand away from Lucien's, leapt up, and thrust her weight against the door. "Uh, sure, Ley! Be down in a minute!"

"Don't get panicky girl, I'm not comin' in! Not my place to barge in on my female guests while they're indecent!" His footsteps faded as Ley retreated down the stairs again. A snicker behind her brought her thoughts back to Lucien. She must look absolutely foolish. With a crumpled face, she tried the knob. Locked.

"You did that, didn't you?"

Lucien chuckled low in his throat, the sound sending prickles up her neck. "For safety, yes. It wouldn't do for the most prominent bard in the realm to be caught with the likes of me…"

Groaning, Ilshalys covered her face, her cheeks burning her fingers. When she took her hands away and found the strength to face him once more, he had disappeared. She glanced at the door. Still locked. He was invisible, then. Now what? Did he lure her into a false sense of friendship only to kill her now? Her eyes flashed to the Blade of Woe, wondering how quickly she could get to it. She took a few steps, glancing around for any sign of him. She had just reached the dagger when she heard the click of the lock and the door swung open. Then, his breath was in her ear. Her spine became a solid column of ice, not daring to move. "Your path is clear. Send Rufio to his death, and the Dark Brotherhood will embrace you as family."

In a whisper of shadowed steps, Lucien Lachance was gone. Yet, for many minutes, Ilshalys Kennedorn remained a statue of fright.


	6. Family Reunion

/

Shadowed Destinies

Chapter Six: Family Reunion

/

Another bead of blood slid down the black metal of the Blade of Woe, dripping off to join the ever-growing pool at her feet. Sprawled out, his breath bubbling up in his throat, Rufio silently bled out. Two neat punctures riddled his collapsed chest, one on the left and one on the right. His hand twitched, sending a ripple through the crimson puddle.

Ilshalys stood over him, her white knuckled hand gripping the soaked blade. Her entire body quivered, shaking more drops of blood from the blade. She did not tremble from fear or horror at her deed, but from rage. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold in the scream in her throat.

The old man's last words resonated in her mind.

"_No! Please! I didn't mean to do it, you understand me? She struggled! I... I told her to just stay still, but she wouldn't listen! I had no choice!"_

Before that moment, she still had mixed feelings about killing the old Breton. Her conscience had been clear in killing Jillik: she knew of his crimes and knew the world would be better off with his death. Rufio was just a name to her. Her questions about him did not tell her much, and watching his fitfully sleeping on that dirty bed made her pause even as she raised the blade. What could he have done to earn the attention of the Dark Brotherhood?

She decided to awaken him and let him defend himself, but he only ran and cowered. Then, in his final, pathetic plea, Rufio made the decision for her. She stabbed him twice with her new weapon, marveling as the black blade easily slipped into his flesh, gliding along his ribs until it poked into each of his lungs. He did not even have time to scream before toppling over with a wheeze. It was so easy.

With a sneer, she wiped his blood onto his tunic and pocketed his gold. "Waste of flesh," she growled, giving the corpse a kick for good measure. She changed into a clean shirt, tossed the bloodied one into a dark corner, and casually ascended the stairs to the main room of the Inn of Ill Omen.

Well, the deed was done. Now, the second instruction was to sleep in a secure location. Manheim, the owner of the inn, told her that Rufio kept to himself and no one really bothered with him, so she was not worried about anyone discovering him for a while. Still, Rufio missing a night of rent would certainly raise some flags. The thought of the degenerate's money tainting her purse reared up in a wave of revulsion and made her start for the front desk.

Manheim stopped wiping the counter as she approached and plastered on a welcoming smile. "Hi there. So, did you find the old man alright?"

She gave him a smile and passed the handful of gold to him. "Yes, but the old man wasn't feeling too well. Asked me to give you his next payment so he wouldn't be bothered."

"Well, think of that! Nice to know we've got young people like you looking out for us older folks."

Ilshalys simply smiled and nodded, smothering the ironic laugh that almost gave her away. She handed him another night's fee and asked for a room. This place was as secure as any other, and the rage that overcame her before left her feeling drained. She did not feel like bouncing down the road on that horse again. Silently, she pulled herself up the stairs and pushed the door open.

As she tried to make the meager bed more comfortable, she questioned her motives in agreeing to kill Rufio in the first place. Did she truly possess a murderer's heart? If the Brotherhood accepted her, what would be expected of her? These questions and others wheeled about in her mind. Remembering the way he reacted to her premature inquiry about Sithis, she told herself to find patience.

Satisfied that the bed would offer more comfort than a bedroll in the wild, she snuggled down into the blankets. As she dropped off, she heard the voice of Rufio proclaiming his innocence once more.

"Innocence…what a joke," she murmured, feeling proud of ridding the world of another one of its secret monsters.

A few hours later, Ilshalys woke to the scent of fresh bread, a warm, homey smell that made her smile sleepily. Manheim must have just baked a new batch. Rising from the pillow, she stretched and yawned, feeling no more of the tension and dark emotions before her rest. She felt wonderful. Then, she noticed the scent of the bread was much too strong to be coming from the kitchen. A cold shiver passed through her and she cautiously opened her eyes.

Lucien Lachance towered over the bed, his intriguing eyes fixed on her, smiling that easy smile of his. On the small table beside him, a loaf of hot, crusty bread sat steaming alongside a bowl of fresh, pale butter and plate of ripe strawberries. Feeling rather exposed, she patted her clothing to check for any gapes or slips. Everything remained in its proper place, but he seemed to look through her anyway.

"So the deed is done," he did not ask, but stated in absolute certainty. A bit of amazement flickered in her eyes. Sensing her next question, he intercepted, "How do I know this? You will find that the Dark Brotherhood knows a great many things. For you are now part of the family." He took a seat at the table and began slicing the bread. From the bed, she could see the softness, the freshness, and her mouth began to water. Untangling herself from the sheets, she smoothed her hair back and sat across from him. He spread a pat of butter over a hot slice and handed it to her. She took a grateful bite, humming happily as the melting butter filled her mouth with warmth.

"Mm…thank you," she murmured, holding a hand up to her mouth in politeness. Swallowing, she tried to read his face beyond the friendly grin.

He lowered his eyes and prepared a slice for himself. "Naturally, it would be rude not to honor your hospitality with my own."

Was he like this with every recruit: sitting down to tea and bringing tasty peace offerings? Did she dare believe that she was the first to get this treatment? Something told her she was, but it was probably a girlish hope. He was handsome, charming, and so smooth. His charisma undoubtedly ensured cooperation more often than not. Whatever this all meant, they shared a fine meal. The bread was perfectly crusty and the berries, still warm from the sunshine they ripened under, were thirst-quenching and soft. As she reached for the knife to slice another, Lucien moved first, his hand brushing hers to close around the knife.

"No, no, my Sister. I have seen what you can do with a knife," Lucien joked, alluding to their earlier exchange with the tea. Ilshalys laughed quietly, feeling a bit more at ease than the night before. Something about him still made her stomach flutter nervously, but considering that he called her "Sister", she felt that her immediate safety was secure.

His familial address and inference of her bloody deed reminded her of the position she found herself in and all the questions that still plagued her. Setting her bread and berries aside, she faced him squarely, catching his gaze with her own, "So… now what?"

In the depths of her soft eyes, he saw a dark eagerness. She obeyed his instructions without trepidation. In his examination of the cold corpse of Rufio, he again saw the motive behind her choice of killing: revelry, as it had been with Jillik. "Now, you embrace your destiny. For the killing of Rufio was the signing of a covenant. The manner of execution, your signature. Rufio's blood, the ink. As a Speaker of the Black Hand, I directly oversee a particular group of family members." He sounded particularly proud of that fact, his chest puffing a bit from what she could distinguish through the thick robe. "You will join that group, and fulfill any contracts given."

He went on to tell her about an abandoned house in Cheydinhal and a ritual to gain access to what he called a Sanctuary. Ilshalys remembered the abandoned house quite well. She had been on the run while on a job for the Thieves' Guild and ducked inside to hide. After a few minutes, she began exploring the place, looking for supplies or maybe some loot. All the while, she felt a strange prickling sensation all over her body, the pressure of eyes watching her movements. The brush of an errant cobweb nearly sent her fainting to the floor. Her innate curiosity ran out at once and she rushed back outside. She could still feel the caress of the cobweb and shuddered in spite of herself.

"Ah, so you were the visitor Ocheeva mentioned." Ilshalys paled a bit, realizing that there had indeed been eyes on her. Lucien smiled at her slight discomfort and once again placed a cool hand on hers. She did not startle this time but relaxed beneath his touch. "I assure you, you were in no danger. Even if you approached the Black Door, you could not have stumbled in. It is for our protection as much as any squatter who might think the house to be a good home. You might find it less ominous now. It is your new home, sanctioned by the Night Mother. Other Brothers and Sisters live there, and they can give you advice on whatever you need."

"And what can you tell me?" Her question was sharp and caught the Speaker off guard. There was a strong confidence in her voice he had not heard before. "I don't want to stumble around in the dark trying to fit in. You say the Brotherhood knows many things." She leaned closer to him, dropping her voice down to a low whisper. "I want to know."

To her great relief, he did not appear annoyed by her persistence. "Ah, so eager. Good." As a sign of his compliance, he removed the hood shadowing his face. The light hit his eyes perfectly, making their color all the richer. His dark hair shone like black ice, pulled low and away from his face. Ilshalys felt the blood rush to her cheeks once more, setting her face aglow. Just when she thought her reaction to him was under control, he brought her right back down into that giddy, adolescent prison. "Ask of me what you will, my curious Sister."

She did not miss the affectionate tone in his address, but she pushed the giddy flip in her stomach aside. Now was not the time to reveal how much he affected her. "Alright. First of all, this covenant. Tell me what that means."

She would do well in her new life, he could tell. Her need to know would be an asset on her contracts. He could see her going over every possible situation, her amber eyes glinting with calculating intelligence. No tiny detail would escape her—no target would escape her. The thought sent delicious warmth through his being, silently praising the Night Mother for her favor on this child. "As a member of the Dark Brotherhood, you have become a child of Sithis, as I am, as is every Brother and Sister. We offer souls in the form of assassinations to the Void that he embodies. Whenever one talks of chaos, doom, discord, they speak of our Dread Father, Sithis."

The change in his demeanor when speaking of the dark entity was even more profound that when he spoke of the Night Mother. He whispered the name with such reverence that she was sure he spoke of some sort of god. The hushed reverence permeated her demeanor, and she moved ever closer to him and repeated the question he denied her before, "Tell me of Sithis, my Brother."

Lucien's brow grew serious, his mouth thinning as he answered. "How does one best describe our Dread father? Imagine…a perfect cloudless midnight, cold as ice and shrouded in snow. That is Sithis: the Void."

Ilshalys' eyes widened, remembering her dark vision in Sanguine's glade, unable to resist muttering, "An endless abyss of beckoning coldness…" The parallels in Lucien's description of Sithis and the meditative dream were apparent and staggering. In hindsight, it seemed that she had received a kind of premonition. Her blood ran cold to think that some ancient entity of death had touched her very being. Perhaps that was why this all seemed so natural to her.

Lucien felt a cold prickle run up his spine, appreciative of her poetic description. For a moment, he replayed her enticing performance in the City last night in his mind, hearing once more the dark, dulcet lyrics of her sinister tune, seeing her slim form entrancing the eyes of her audience. This elf was truly a remarkable thing.

The sun began to dim outside the filmy window, signaling the approach of night. Coming to the realization that he had been staring at her for quite a while, he cleared his throat, the sound bringing her out of her own contemplation. "Well, it seems that we have been wiling away the hours, Sister. We must now take our leave of each other, you and I." He reached into his pack and pulled out a small book. "Another volume for your collection." Taking it, she turned the worn book over, running a finger over the many marks of wear on the cover, taking note of the lovingly preserved pages. A large black handprint accompanied the title on the first page. "The Five Tenets is our code of…ethics. The laws within that book have guided and protected the Dark Brotherhood for centuries. Read it and hold its lessons close to your heart."

Resisting the urge to fall into the pages at that moment, she closed it and slipped it into her book satchel, taking care not to scrape the gift against the buckles. "So, I suppose I'll see you at the Sanctuary."

Lucien shook his head and stepped closer to her. She gazed up at him, marveling in just how tall the man was. "I'm afraid not. My duties with the Black Hand keep me busy, so Ocheeva oversees the day-to-day running of the Sanctuary. Be assured that I do not intend to drop you into something you are not ready for. I will be following…your progress." Raising his graceful hand, he brushed her soft cheek with his fingers. Her eyes closed for an instant, the airy touch somewhat like the cobweb in the derelict house but much more pleasant. She felt a loneliness when the touch ended and opened her eyes to find Lucien gone again, the room empty save for his dark, enticing voice.

"Welcome to the family."

/

The Black Door loomed over her, its ancient carvings filled with darkness and death. The tall, gloomy figure of a woman clutching a young child dominated the lower half of the sculptures portal. In her bony hand was a dagger, somewhat similar to the Blade of Woe on her belt. Crouched in the shadow of their matron, a quartet of skeletal children knelt pleading for their lives. Even more arresting than this scene of sacrifice was the domineering skull that watched over them with empty eyes. An ominous red light emanated from the bas relief of a handprint, its outline pulsing with the blood-colored luminescence. She raised a trembling hand to the handle, her eyes still fixed on the ebbing light.

As her fingers closed around the door handle, a ghostly voice seemingly coming from very substance of the door poured over her ears like an icy fog. "What…is the color…of night?"

Her mind went blank. It had been a few hours since Lucien fed her the answer and she had gone over it in her mind all the way down the stairs into the basement. Now, there was nothing. The images on the Black Door swallowed her vision, making her feel smaller by the moment. The light pulsing out of the hand sped up a little, capturing her gaze. The color…red, no bloody…something about blood…

"S-sanguine, my Brother…"

Her quiet murmur seemed to be the key as the door suddenly loosened and creaked open. A dank, chilly breath of air washed over her. Down the dark corridor, she could hear hushed conversations and the creak of bones. What awaited her beyond that horrific door?

"Welcome home…" whispered the spectral voice, ushering her into the main corridor as the door swung closed. She glanced around, trying to find the one who asked the ritualistic question. She stood alone in the darkness. Deciding to investigate this later, she made her way deeper into the Sanctuary. A dark figure stood in the space of a great room carved from the rock beneath the house, clad in armor that seemed to swallow the low light in the room. Her long, scaly tail swung out as she approached Ilshalys.

"Greetings, Sister. Greetings." She clasped the bard's hands and gave her a toothy smile, her crimson eyes glinting in the torchlight. Her skin was mottled in green and violet with a row of rather sharp spines running down the length of her temples into a graceful pair of translucent fins, giving the illusion of a veil. "I am Ocheeva, mistress of this Sanctuary."

Ilshalys politely rescued her hands and returned the smile, seeing the mistress of a house of assassins to be friendlier than she imagined. "Ah, yes. Lucien…I mean, Speaker Lachance…"

"Yes, Lucien has told me all about you. I welcome you to the Dark Brotherhood. As you gave gained admittance into our Sanctuary, you may consider it as your new home. May you find safety and comfort here whenever you need." She led her to a table where a set of armor similar to her lay neatly folded. "Please, accept this gift from the Dark Brotherhood, lighter than leather and black as the Void."

"I thought I heard you, Sister." A gravelly voice issued from a corner of the room as Ilshalys gathered her new armor. It belonged to another Argonian who sat with a book cradled in his arms. His rust colored skin bore a patch of bright green around his eyes, making their redness even more profound. He stood and extended his hand to shake hers warmly. "Greetings, Sister. I welcome you into the embrace of our Lady, the Night Mother. I am Teinaava, Shadowscale and egg-mate to Ocheeva."

"Siblings, then? How lucky you were to be in the family together."

"No, not luck, but destiny," he explained patiently. "You see, Ocheeva and I were born under the sacred sign of the Shadow. Every hatchling born under that sign are hand-picked as Shadowscales. We are trained in the art of death, setting our destinies for the Dark Brotherhood when we reach the proper life phase. We were marked for Sithis from within the egg, you see."

Ilshalys went over this new information in her mind. There was so much subtlety to life in the Brotherhood. Nothing she had yet experienced could be taken at face value. She enjoyed the riddle of this new life immensely.

Ocheeva placed a hand on her back, bringing her attention back to her, "So sorry, egg-mate, but this one has much to see. We will have to sup and talk later." With that, she led her around the room, pointing out the doors to the living quarters and the training room. "You'll most likely find M'raaj-Dar in there. He is our resident mage and merchant. He will supply you with just about everything you need. I'll warn you though, he's been quite moody of late, so don't take it personally if you don't receive a warm welcome."

As they rounded a corner, the creaking of bones grew louder and Ilshalys gasped. A skeleton bearing a wickedly notched axe lumbered toward them. On instinct, she leapt in front of the Argonian and drew her daggers with a snarl. "Back, Ocheeva! I'll handle-"

To her surprise, the mistress stepped before her again, mere feet from the advancing monster, and gave her a motherly smile. "I appreciate your concern, my Sister, but we are in no danger. This guardian was gifted to us by Lucien Lachance. It will only attack one who is not of the Brotherhood. I have never even seen it raise its weapon in all my years of living here."

Ocheeva's words calmed the battle-ready bard who gaped as the skeletal being shuffled past them without so much as a glance. Without a word, she sheathed her weapons and let Ocheeva continue her tour, feeling a little embarrassed of herself. This place was a Sanctuary for a reason after all.

A little further down the way, they came upon a tall Bosmer with short brown hair and one of the largest orcs Ilshalys had ever seen. They were chatting and joking with each other, as if they were sitting in a warm tavern. The wood elf seemed to be chiding the orc about his lack of stealth. Ilshalys could understand; the burly thing wore a set of foreign plate mail with tinged with red, but she couldn't be sure if it were part of the metal or the remnants of his last contract. As he sneered at the perks of subtlety, the elf laughed merrily at his bluster, patting him affectionately on his heavily armored shoulder.

Ocheeva noticed her stare and explained, "This is Telaendril and Gogron gro-Bolmog. Brother, Sister, come meet our newest family member!" At her command, the pair finally took notice of them and approached, both of them, grinning.

Telaendril spoke first, closing the gap between them and wrapping her arms around the bard. "Ah, a fellow wood elf! Warmest welcome to you, Sister. I am Telaendril, loyal daughter of Sithis." Ilshalys wriggled uncomfortably and the taller elf released her with a lopsided smile. "So, I see you are an archer. Perhaps we might scout together someday."

Ilshalys' brows lifted, intrigued at the thought of sneaking and spying with a fellow Bosmer. It had been a long time since she had teamed up with anyone. Anyone competent at least. "I would be honored. I am Ilshalys Kennedorn: bard, illusionist, and thief."

"Oh, you'll have plenty of opportunities to ply your trade on your contracts. No one needs their valuables when they're dead," Telaendril confided with a wry smile.

"That reminds me; you have somewhere to be tonight, my Sister," Ocheeva said, handing Telaendril a slip of paper. The wood elf opened it and smiled softly, her eyes darkening as she looked at her mistress.

"It shall be done, Mistress Ocheeva." She slipped the paper into a pocket and pulled a black hood over her hair. It was tighter than Lucien's, a sign of station she assumed. Without another word, Telaendril walked away to prepare for her dark errand.

The orc, Gogron, suddenly stepped into her view and landed a pair of heavily muscled hands on her shoulders, squeezing them a little too tightly. "Welcome my Sister! I'd hug you, but Ocheeva told me not to! Name's Gogron gro-Bolmog, the best and bloodiest!"

A wave of relief passed over Ilshalys and she gave Ocheeva a thankful look. She quickly found the amicable atmosphere contagious and clapped Gogron on his shoulder, hiding the wince as her hand connected with his armor. "Nice to meet you, Brother," she smiled, giving his armor a closer look as she felt a stickiness under her palm. "This is quite…impressive."

Gogron nodded with a tusky leer, pounding his own chest with his gauntlet. "The finest in Daedric armor! Keeps the blades out of my guts!"

"And the blood on the outside, as well," she joked, brushing off his shoulder plate.

Picking up on her amusement, he flicked off a chunk of gore stuck to the chest plate. "I know what you're thinking! 'Gogron, he's too big to be sneaky!' Well, you're right! Me, I just like to go in and hack 'em to pieces!" He let a loud laugh free from his ample belly, and Ilshalys chuckled along. Ocheeva smiled, shaking her head at the unassailable orc's methods.

"Well, Brother, I have to get this new face to her first contract. Sithis be with you."

"Huh? Oh, yes, Sithis be with you as well." Gogron seemed a bit flippant, but he bowed slightly and clanked down the hall. Ilshalys smiled as he left. She was beginning to like it here.

Ocheeva sighed, rubbing her head spines firmly, "If I could get that one to take his contracts more seriously, I would probably be immortalized in the Brotherhood's history. He hasn't received a bonus since he arrived."

"And…how would one go about doing that?" Ilshalys asked eagerly. Usually a bonus meant gold or a valuable item. She hoped it meant the same thing in this group.

Ocheeva nodded in appreciation of her enthusiasm. "Our main source of income relies on successfully completing contracts: blood bound agreements between a Brother or Sister and one who has prayed to our Mother for the death of another. Sometimes, these contracts have stipulations that require a certain…finesse. If you meet all requirements, you will be awarded a special bonus. Sithis is especially pleased by those who follow his contracts to the letter. Remember that."

"My mistress!" A boisterous female voice thundered behind them. Ilshalys turned to find herself face to face with a pretty Breton girl. Her shimmering primrose hair bounced on her shoulders as she rushed toward them. A pair of baby blue eyes glistened out of a round-cheeked face pinkened by the sun. She slowed as she took notice of Ilshalys and her face lit up in a friendly grin. "Oh, hello there! You must be our newest Sister. My name is Antoinetta Marie. So good to meet you, dear." Like Telaendril, she immediately moved to hug the bard, her embrace sweetened by a rosy scent. "Oh, it's so good to see a fellow Sister. I was beginning to think we ladies would soon be overrun by these menfolk."

"Antoinetta." Ocheeva's voice, low and raspy, caught the girl's attention. Forgetting about Ilshalys, she released her and faced her mistress. "I trust from your giddy entrance that your task is complete."

"Oh, yes, Mistress! Yon the Bull lies dead. The foolish Nord had no chance against me." Her childish face rose proudly as she produced a small silver ring with a black pearl from a pocket in her armor. "Here, his ex-mistress' ring."

Ocheeva accepted the proffered jewelry, inclining her head to Ilshalys. "Antoinetta is one of the finest in the art of deception. Such a sweet faced thing couldn't possibly mean any harm," she crooned in mock innocence, ending in a sinister laugh that Antoinetta shared. "This ring represents a requirement that the contact asked us to fulfill. Your bonus, my dear Sister." Ocheeva handed Antoinetta a silver pendant with a skull-shaped ruby set in the center. "The Deathdealer Stone."

Antoinetta's bright blue eyes grew even brighter, slipping the necklace over her soft hair. "My utmost for the Night Mother, Ocheeva." Turning back to Ilshalys, she gave her another quick hug. "Farewell, my Sister. I hope you don't get killed…I mean…well you know…" she stammered, so excited with her newest prize. She fairly skipped down the corridor, leaving a rather confused bard and her mistress behind.

"Well, I think you've been a little bombarded, Ilshalys. Why don't you go and get some rest. When you feel you are ready, find Vicente Valtieri. He will guide you in the first of your contracts. May Sithis go with you."

"And may Sithis go with you as well, Mistress," she answered respectfully. As she left Ocheeva, Ilshalys went over everything she had learned of her new family and their way of life. Her expectation to find a group of hollow-eyed cultists was far from the mark. She found she felt quite at home with those she had met so far. They were just like anyone else, despite their grim occupation. The promise of gifts was enticing as well—she would have to find time to ask Antoinetta about the Deathdealer Stone—but Ilshalys found herself focusing on the aspect of Sithis.

As a member of the many guilds located in Cyrodill, she was used to working on the whims of another. She had even performed tasks for some of the Daedra Princes, some honorable, some quite of questionable morality. Even working for such otherworldly entities, she had never experienced anything like this. More and more, she enjoyed the sound of it. An impulse came over her as she made her way into the living quarters—a need to offer praise to her Lord—and she began to sing, echoing the song that had brought Lucien Lachance to her. The song that Sithis himself had given her.

"_Where light once beamed, now darkness streamed_

_The heart once alive will not beat_

_All in shadow lost, all in tempests tossed_

_All will bow by his feet…"_


	7. Blood on the Water

/

Shadowed Destinies

Chapter Seven: Blood on the Water

/

Shuffling. Moaning. The mindless sounds of the dead swirled through the air like a vile fog as she crept along the once splendid walls of the Ayleid temple. Three of them lay in a stinking pile of ruin behind her. No telling how many more awaited her, but she didn't care; destiny, too, awaited her in the halls of the dead.

Eventually, she came upon an open chamber filled with glittering blue and white stones. Raw Welkynd and Varla stones. One day, she would discover a way to harvest them and create her own finished stones. Within the shadows where their light didn't quite reach, she saw bristling shapes that squeaked and chittered. Damn rats. Not a problem in combat, but how she hated the things. Memories of fighting them off mostly barehanded in her escape from the prison roiled in her mind, sending a shiver through her. Well, at least the stupid rodents were easy to sneak past. Crouching, her form melded with the mottled shadows, slinking along the wall toward the tree-emblazoned door at the far end.

Pausing in her stealthy trek, Ilshalys ran her fingers over the intricate carvings in the alabaster wall, detailing a rich harvest celebration that lead up to a ritualistic sacrifice of what appeared to be men of Nordic ancestry. It never ceased to amaze Ilshalys how these ancient mer could marry such beauty and cruelty throughout their culture. For months she studied their culture, immersed herself in their language, uncovering more lore and secrets to add to the University's already rich knowledge of them. On her last expedition, she discovered a tablet detailing deified artifacts, and one in particular caught her eye. The name of the deity was archaic and unfamiliar, and that alone made it worthwhile. Now if she could only reach the central citadel of the sprawling temple in one piece, the _Adabal av Padhomee_, the God Stone of Padhome, would be hers. The tiny passage in the ancient text told her a vague description of the magical stone but little else, as if the scribe had been frightened of what he carved into the stone. Nevertheless, she couldn't resist the challenge and made her way to Oiolorsel to find her treasure.

Too late, she felt her foot sink as it landed on a stone trigger plate. With the clunk of ancient mechanisms, the vile trap activated. From all corners of the room, greenish smoke belched out of little cubic vents, clouding the air in its fetid veil. One by one, the hapless vermin dropped dead with a despairing screech. Choking and gasping, Ilshalys forgot about stealth and bolted for the door to the citadel. The poisonous gas crept up her nose, a thousand times fouler than the stench of the prisons. Clapping a hand over her mouth and nose, she pushed and banged on the door, trying to open it to fresher air. It was no use, the door remained closed and the deadly vapor grew stronger. Her lungs burned, begging her to breathe. Her wits spinning, she gave in at last and gulped a huge breath of the gas into her aching body. In an instant her lungs were on fire, the poisoned breath trapped inside erupting from her throat in a loud scream.

Then, the door was gone. The ruin crumbled about her and disappeared. All that remained was the vile smell and a single surviving rat that regarded her with glittering oil-black eyes. Its whiskers twitched nervously at the tip of its small pinkish nose. She screamed again and reached for her daggers. They too were gone. It was then that she felt the softness beneath her and saw the worn stone walls of a different room.

"Ah, you're awake! Good morning, Little Sister!"

Looking up, still slightly panicked, she saw Gogron seated at the dining table, juices from the slab of pork he feasted on dripping from his grinning tusks. Seated next to him was Telaendril, who punched his armored shoulder.

"Now hush you. Poor girl is obviously distressed about something." Rising, she shooed the rat away from Ilshalys and knelt next to her. "What's the matter, dear? Bad dream?" Genuine concern shimmered in the elf's soft brown eyes, and she patted the bard's sweaty hand reassuringly.

With a cough to expel the noxious air still lingering in her lungs, the bard rubbed her teary eyes and nodded, bringing her heaving chest back under control, "Sort of…felt real…" She coughed again, covering her sensitive nose. "Not quite as bad as the smell in here, though. What _is_ that?"

Telaendril chuckled and helped her to her feet. "Our dear Antoinetta fancies herself a great visionary in the world of food." She led her to the table and gestured to an untouched plate of what appeared to be slivers of venison smothered in eggs and onions. Six whole cloves of roasted garlic lay nestled among the folds of egg. "Her latest creation. Calls it 'Omelette de Fantastique'."

Ilshalys' stomach turned violently as the smell crept up her nose. Shaking her head, she went to her pack and pulled out her lavender poultice. Telaendril smiled at her resourcefulness as she applied it to her upper lip. "Here, it helps," she murmured as she handed the paste to the assassin. Smiling gratefully, she mimicked the bard's action, taking a cautious sniff and sighing in relief.

"Much better. Gogron?"

"Nah, no need. I can take it. Besides, once you get past the initial gagging, it's not that bad a dish!"

"'Not that bad?' Not even Schemer would taste the stuff!" Telaendril laughed, gesturing to the retreating rat. "Gogron's little darling," she explained to the pale bard. Ilshalys shuddered and sat at the table. She poured herself a little mead and tore a hunk of bread from the loaf. It wasn't nearly as crusty and perfect as the loaf she shared with Lucien, but it was soft and tasty. Still, she found herself wishing for some of that sweet, creamy butter he brought along.

"Yes, so sorry if he scared you. Little feller just loves new arrivals!" Gogron bragged, holding a wedge of cheese under the table. Skittering claws raked the stone floor as the pet rat hurried back to accept the gift. Instinctively, Ilshalys scooted away from the thing, intent on her breakfast. The orc only laughed, not offended by her repulsion. "Don't fret, little elf! You'll get used to him!"

Telaendril rolled her doe-brown eyes with a smile at her brutish companion. "You'll get used to him, too."

With a light laugh, Ilshalys went to work on a chunk of roasted meat. Tough but palatable, and thankfully no odd flavor combinations. She looked back at the odious concoction on the far table, feeling a little guilty about joining in their ridicule. "Would be rude not to try it?"

"Not at all, just tell her you're allergic to something in it," Telaendril whispered. "It will spare her pride, but it might not be enough to change her ways. Poor Vicente still cannot be in the same room as her cooking. The garlic does not agree with him."

Gogron sobered suddenly, his dark eyes darting about. "I'd almost forgotten about that. We should probably get rid of it, or Vicente might not agree with _her_. You remember what nearly happened last time."

Telaendril shook her head, though she did rise to dispose of the offensive food. "Vicente is loyal to Sithis to his core, Brother. He would not dream of disobeying the Tenets."

"Sending someone to their sickbed for a week doesn't break the Tenets, Sister. Loopholes like that are why laws just don't work," Gogron grumbled, "even our laws. How else did our last Speaker end up like she did?"

With a flash of death in her eyes, Telaendril spun on the orc, her mouth thin and tight. "You watch what you say and how you say it, Gogron. If Ocheeva heard you…"

Waving a massive paw in her direction, Gogron nodded tiredly. "Don't get your frillies bunched up. I know that the Tenets are important and I follow them. I'm just saying, even with them in place, I need to watch my own back. No words on paper, no matter how old or threatening can stop a knife in the gut. Only your wits and will to live."

Ilshalys nodded, agreeing with the orc's cold logic. She had gone over the Tenets the night before, studying them and pondering the "Wrath of Sithis". From what she learned on her own and from her talks with Lucien Lachance, she gained a healthy respect for Sithis and the Night Mother. These Tenets were their will and command, and she resolved to follow them to the letter. Still, what Gogron said was quite true. Anyone could find a way around the law if the right circumstance came about. Why else was Jillik set free? Why else was Rufio running from his past instead of rotting in a cell when she found him? Laws could only do so much. The rest was up to her.

Satisfied that the orc meant no disrespect, Telaendril's mouth relaxed and her eyes grew soft again. "I understand your apprehension, Brother. Hennial's death has taken a toll on us all, but she left us in good hands. Lucien will take care of all of us."

At the mention of his name, Ilshalys felt that fiery blush paint her cheeks. A rush of goose bumps prickled her flesh. She ducked her head to hide it in shadows, but Gogron caught sight of her reaction immediately. He grinned rakishly, nudging the bard so hard that she nearly toppled from the chair. "I see someone who'd like to be 'taken care of', eh Sister?"

Ilshalys glared at him, the hairs on her neck bristling. His laughter subsided as the light left her eyes, but try as she might, she could think of nothing clever or biting to say. Rather than be embarrassed further, she pushed the chair back and stomped out of the room. She heard Gogron call out in apology before the smack of a hand on plate metal and a scold from Telaendril silenced him.

"Damn it, why do I keep doing that?" She mumbled, slamming the immense door behind her. She pressed her hands to her cheeks to relieve the fire blazing in them. They came away coated in a light sweat that made her shiver in the cool air. Why did that man have such an effect on her? She was not a child, not some silly girl with moonlit eyes for a crush. Was she?

Her cheek tingled as she recalled the spider-touch of his hand, and she laid her own over the spot, trying to bring back that moment. Her stomach flipped thinking about his voice humming over her ear. That voice…if he asked anything of her, she knew that she would do it without a thought and not because of the Tenets alone. She felt frightened and excited, her body growing hot and cold at the same time. Leaning against the wall, she willed her heart to slow down, closing her eyes against the blood rushing about in her body. What a child she was. He was the Speaker, her superior. Besides that, they had only just met. Such a child. Perhaps now would be a good time to find this Vicente Valtieri and work out these emotions in blood.

A shadow passed over the wall as a cat-like creature in blue robes rounded the corner. His ears lay flat against his tiger-striped head and his whiskers twitched in annoyance as he muttered under his breath. She could not hear what he complained about, but he caught sight of her and deepened his glare. His maw pulled back over a set of formidable teeth, but she only straightened and stared blankly back. She could only assume she had finally met the irritable M'raaj-Dar: merchant, mage, and mood killer.

"So, you're the one everyone is raving about. The _outsider_," he growled, his thick accent rolling over each word. She merely crossed her arms and smirked at him. Her silence seemed her make him even angrier. He took two large strides and shoved his furry face into hers, his wet nose pressing hers flat. She did not flinch. "Look, the Tenets prevent me from killing you, but that doesn't mean I have to like you. I'll sell to you, but only because Ocheeva's making me. We clear?"

His bluster and overt but impotent threat sailed past her, not impressing her enough to make her raise an eyebrow. Faintly, she remembered a trick she used to play on her family's pet kitten when she was a child. Would it produce the same effect on one of these catlike beings? Pulling back slightly, she blew a sharp puff of air into the Khajiit's muzzle. Promptly, he pulled away, sneezing and pawing at his tickled nose. Turning enraged green eyes on her, he flexed his clawed hands, itching to tear her pretty face. She faced him, lifting her chin in defiance, her face a mask of mild amusement. "Well?"

With a snarled curse, he spun around and stormed into the training room, leaving her with a final insult, "Foul-smelling ape…"

A man's throaty chuckle behind her stole her moment to gloat in her minor victory. A chill ran up her spine and a faint hope that she might turn to see Lucien's face flitted through her mind. No, this laugh was not deep enough and carried the hint of an accent. Pushing her adolescent fantasy down again, she turned and saw a well-manicured Breton leaning easily against the wall. His hair was the color of warm ashes and pulled into a low ponytail. He looked to be quite old, but his eyes glittered out of the shadows with youth and…something else. "Masterfully done, my young sister. Not many can send that feline out without raising their voices or matching insults. You certainly live up to the wit that I've heard of." Smoothly, he stepped into the light, and at last, she saw his eyes. Scarlet. His thin lips pulled into a friendly smile adorned with fangs. Her face drained of color, as if her body was pulling its lifeblood away from him.

_Sanctuary, Kennedorn, _she chanted inside her mind, holding onto the impulse to leap at him in defense. S_afety…don't panic…_ "Uh, how…how long were you…"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Sister. I had hoped that my other siblings would have told you about my…nature. I do hope I didn't frighten you. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Vicente Valtieri." He extended a hand her way. His hand was white-fleshed, thin, and bony, but Ilshalys knew how strong his grip would be. Thankfully, her instinct to throw a fireball into his drawn face did not make an appearance as it had been with the Dark Guardian yesterday. Perhaps the fact that she had previously met the Count of Skingrad made this encounter a bit less frightening. After all, a vampire who wanted a meal took it—they did not bother with pleasantries.

No longer hesitant, she took his hand and shook it, offering her smile to him. "Ilshalys Kennedorn, Brother Vicente. Pleased to meet you."

"My, you're taking this better than poor Antoinetta did. Wouldn't come out of the living quarters for a week," he said with a wider grin. The torchlight glimmered against his ivory fangs, and she shivered involuntarily. "Please do not let my appearance unnerve you. The needs and Tenets of the Dark Brotherhood come before my needs as a vampire."

She studied his face, knowing just how little this man fulfilled those needs by looking at him. His cheeks were so hollow that his facial bones poked sharply from beneath his dry flesh. Janus Hassildor at least looked human. She thought it best to keep that comment to herself. M'raaj-Dar may be unworthy of her respect, but Vicente's polite demeanor merited her kindness. "So, how do you stay fed, if you don't mind my asking?"

Vicente chuckled, his eyes mild as they could be considering. "Do I hunt on my contracts? When it's convenient. As I said, the Brotherhood comes first. More often than not, I receive a few…gifts from a friend in Leyawin. She owns a vineyard of sorts for those of our ken."

Ilshalys swallowed hard, thinking of the cruel vampiress she put down in Castle Leyawin's dungeons a few weeks ago. Well, how was she to know? Besides, it was her or poor Amusei. For all of his foolish bravado, the Argonian was a decent sort and a fine tracker for the Fox. "Uh, I hate to tell you this, but I don't know if you'll be getting anymore from her," the bard confessed, unable to meet his eyes. How would a vampire react to the death of one of his own?

"Dead, then? Pity. Well, it happens. She was foolish to think it could last forever, especially in a respected Count's own castle," he shrugged, but he couldn't hide the flicker of hungry disappointment in his eyes.

She decided to change the subject, thinking of the reason that she needed to speak with him in the first place. "Ocheeva told me to come find you. I am ready to serve the Brotherhood."

Vicente smiled, his eyes glittering with a different hunger. "Yes, I see Lucien was right about your ambition. Very well, let us begin. How do you feel about pirates?"

/

On the deck of the Marie Elena, blood dripped into the bay, glowing redder in the setting sun's light. Standing bloodied and victorious, a group of Imperial soldiers patted each other heartily and congratulated themselves in the dealing of justice.

"Damn pirates, why the Captain lets them dock here is beyond me," one muttered, wiping his sword on the tunic of a slain Dunmer, the temperamental first mate of the doomed vessel.

"He's new, give him time. Soon we'll shove them all out to sea, and let the slaughterfish take them," his friend answered, giving the door to the captain's cabin a look. "Think we should get the old man out? He's to blame for this crew."

Giving it a moment's thought, the first shook his head. "Nah, let him be. If he wants to make a complaint, that's his business. We're done here."

As the pair made their way back to their patrols, Ilshalys bided her time behind a pair of crates, invisible to all eyes. It had been an easy thing to set off the volatile crew. If an angry pirate ever tells you not to do something and you want them dead, do it. The guards were her solution to get the crew out of her way. That was done: now to the captain.

Sneaking around to the larger crate, she climbed atop it and gauged the distance between her perch and the tiny balcony on the stern of the ship. The distance was not overwhelming, but she still took comfort in the enchantments on the new armor Ocheeva had given her. It really was a marvelous gift. It fit her like a second skin, gave her body an allover lightness, and matched the shadows she took to so well. With a frown, she wondered why the Thieves' Guild had never outfitted her like this. She certainly made them enough gold. They probably used it to furnish the Fox's comfort, the greedy sneaks.

Shrugging off these thoughts to focus on the task ahead, she braced her feet under her and sprang across the water. Silently, her feet landed on the balcony and she tucked herself into a tight ball, listening for any hint that anyone heard her. Silence. Before tackling the lock, she stood and looked over the water, watching the sun bleeding into it as it sank out of sight. What a view this must be out on the open ocean! How many nights did the captain spend out here, plotting and surveying his kingdom? How many mornings did he watch little islands appear in the early mist?

She hoped he never took it for granted. He would never see it again.

Inside the cabin, Tussaud slept peacefully, chortling and mumbling in his dreams of gold and conquest and wenches, completely unaware of his approaching trip to the Void. Ilshalys softly lifted the brass key from his belt and padded about, slipping trinkets and scattered coins into her pockets. The chest came next, opening with a soft click to display its hidden treasures to her. The gold reflected in her eyes, glittering with the promise of the new and better.

A mutter from the bed caught her attention, sending her into a tight crouch, flashing her eyes in her intended victim's direction. He slept on, tossing about, giggling at some imagined dock girl.

Now, how to do it? Did she wake the man and let him defend himself? Did she simply plunge Marrowstone into his throat and watch him choke helplessly on his own blood? Ilshalys heard it said that the coward only hoped to die in his sleep, and the brave man only hoped to die in battle. Why bother with a good adage? As she raised her paralyzing blade in line with his pulsing vein, she paused as a rather interesting idea bloomed in her mind. Sheathing her weapon, she crept back into the other room and grabbed a bottle of cheap wine, dumping it out into a large tankard. She poured a little water from her skin into it and sloshed it around. Creeping back with the now clean bottle, she drew Marrowstone and opened the thick, pulsing vein of the captain's sun-browned throat, slapping her hand over his mouth as he woke. Unable to move, he moaned and slathered under her hand as his hot blood gushed out from the precise wound. She managed to maneuver the bottle over the tiny geyser, letting the blood squirt directly into it.

After a few moments, Marrowstone's stiffening enchantment wore off, but the fight was all but over. Tussaud's shaking hands pawed at the bard, attempting to push her arms off. A few final spasms pushed a bit more blood into the nearly full bottle. At last, the pirate's hand fell limply from her arm, a thin of blood trickling down to drip from his pale fingers to the water-warped floor.

For a few moments, she stood there staring down at the twitching corpse of Captain Gaston Tussaud. His skin grew pale as the blood that remained in his body began to recede. His eyelids flicked half-closed, his muddy eyes losing all focus. Removing her hand from his mouth, she watched his jaw slacken as if his body desperately tried to hold onto life and draw one more breath. Slowly, the blood stopped its tapping on the floorboards. Then, all was silent and still, as if some spell held everything in place.

Footsteps pounded on the floor beyond the door, drawing her awe-struck glance away from her work. Popping the cork back into the bottle, she stuffed it into her pack and exited onto to the balcony just as a concerned crewmember knocked on the door, inquiring of his captain's safety. Slinging herself over the rail, she dropped into the water with a small splash and lingered beneath the surface for a moment, letting the cool water pull the sticky blood away from her dark armor. A wail of promised vengeance thundered out from the captain's cabin as they discovered her bloody work. The door to the balcony exploded open to a pair of enraged pirates, calling for her to reveal herself. With a snicker, she swam languidly to the shore beyond the Waterfront streets. Turning back to the rabid pirates, she gave serious thought to getting a bead on them and sending them to join their fallen leader. In the end, she decided to be generous and instead set her eyes to the east. There would be time to deal with them later if they so desired. It was time to go home.

/


End file.
